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An Illustrated Monthly 

Vol. LVII 

Xon&on : 



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Original from 


ACROSTICS 69, 89, 174, 3*9* 439> 470 

ASCHE, OSCAR, AND LILY BRA YTON .. By Themselves. 294 

BACK-GARDEN HANDICAP, A . Edwin Pugh. 208 


How the Great War Play Came to bb Written. 

BEACH OF DREAMS, THE H.deVere StacfooU. 79, 192, 266, 376, 535 


BRIDGE, HOW TO WIN AT R. F. Foster. 320, 422 


BRIDGE PROBLEMS, THE HARDEST- Six More Examples R.F. Foster. 147, 253 


Cambrai, First Phase 28 

, f Second Phase 103 

BY THE AERO-MAIL -. F . Britten Austin. 405 

A Romance of To-morrow. 

CASE OF LOST MEMORY, A Edwin Balmer. 426 


CHILD MONA, THE William Caine. 238 

COMEDY MEMORIES Ethel Irving. 460 



DANCING TO-DAY •. PhiUp J.S.Richardson. 362 

How To Do It and How Not To. 

DOCTORS, AMONG THE William Caine 435 

DODSON'S DAY ... .. .. .. Hylton Cleaver. 221 


ENGLISH WAY, THE ~ Bartimeus. 49 


FRATERNELLE, LA Michael Norton. 184 

The True Story of a Secret Club of Duellists Revealed for the First Time. 

GRANNY . . Professor UArcy W. Thompson. 372 

GREEN EYES Onninalf'nm R ° ger Wray ' * 79 





HAPPY HUSBAND, THE Ernest Goodwin. 491 


HEAD WAITRESS AT "« THE DUCK " Keble Howard. 112 



HUSBANDRY W.W. Jacobs. 396 

JOAN OF ARC W. B. Maxwell. 54 


A Story for Children 

LAUGH AT ! WHAT PEOPLE Charlie Chaplin. 1 1 9 


LIFE AFTER DEATH Hayden Church. 204 

An Interview with Sir A. Conan Doyle. 

LIVING GHOST, THE Burton Kline. 449 


A Literary Mystery Solved. 


MAGNIFICENT ENSIGN SMITH, THE . . . . Edgar Wallace. 367 


MARCH OF VICTORY, THE Paul Legris. 243 

MATCH FOR A MAN, A Hylton Cleaver. 323 

MEN ARE SUCH CHILDREN Holzcorthy Hall. 300 


What Types Do Women Like Best? A Study in Psychology. 

MEN WHO CLIMBED, THE . . . . M.L.C. Pickthall. 15 


MRS. HUGGING HUN Stacy Aumonier. 124 


Grandmother's " Movies " Harold Avery. 133 

A Bet on the Star-Spangled Banner . . John T. Tussaud. 1^4 

A Prophetic Handkerchief a. Yorick McGill. 1 37 


NICHOLAS AND THE " OLD BEAN » Keble Howard. 478 

" NOT IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ENEMY " Bartiineus. 440, 466 


OFFICIAL MIND, THE Barry Pain. 283 

PAGES FROM MY LIFE Elste Jams. 90 

PERPLEXITIES Henry E. Dudeney. 66,162,252.346,446 c 4 6 

PINCERS, IN THE L. J. BeesUn,. -jo 


prize for a sense of humour, a ,.^ Origir al-from- 530 



iv INDEX* 



Asche, Oscar, axd Brayton, Lily , By Themselves. 294 

Irving, Ethel 460 

Janis, Elsie , 99 

ROPE-TRICK, THE GREAT INDIAN Lieut, F. W. Holmes, V.C t> AUL 310 

RUMPITY PUSHER, A Morley Roberts. 3 


SEALING-WAX Lynn Doyle. 95 

SIX BLIND MASTIFFS, THE L. j. Beeslon. 507 


TERRIBLE TUESDAY. A Story for Children ^ m . „ H.B.Creswdl* 13& 

TERROR OF JOHNSON VILLE, THE .. .. _ .. ,. „ ,. Charles Garvice. 37 

'THIRD DEGREE. THE" jcukBvyU. 336 

M TICKETS, PLEASE ! " : D. H. Laurence. 287 


UNION JACK, HOW TO MAKE A FLORAL 5. Leonard Bastin. 404 

UNITED FAMILY, THE _ .. W. Pett Ridge. 25 



WYNDIIAM, SIR CHARLES. Some Reminbcences Percy BurUm. 389 

ZEPPELINS, THE DEFENCE OF LONDON AGAINST— 191 5 TO 1916. Admiral Sir Percy ScoiU Bart. 349 
44 ZIGZAGS" AT THE ZOO _ ^ ^ „ 75,148,230 

Original from 



Contents for January, 1919. 

The rights of translation and reproduction in the contents of this number are strictly reserved. 



















morley roberts ... 
Harry Houdini ... 


W. pett Ridge 



W. b. Maxwell ... 


R. F. Foster 

L. j. beeston 




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(HX09. TRAD* MARftJ 


(See page 7,) 



Illustrated by Dudley Tennant. 

OMSIDERING the many pro- 
mises I had made to Johnson 
and the fact, or what he said 
was the fact, that everything 
de pended upon me, it is lit tic 
wonder that I was desperate. I 
had eluded him for many days, 
replying neither to his urgent 
telegrams nor to the letters sent me by special 
messengers, Yet if the gods fight against one 
the most desperate resolution must fail, so 
when I ran across him in PiecadiHy and he 
chased me through the Green Park, I yielded 
at last to his entreaties. He thanked me with 
a warmth of emotion which was surprising, 
but I spent the rest of the day in quite intoler- 
able anguish, As a rule I am careful" where 
I eat. but on that night I suddenly took refuge 
from friends and the town in a. mean Sohn 
restaurant. I sat down at the nearest vacant 
table and, * leaning my head upon my hand, 
was presently roused by the waiter presenting 
the bill of fare, I stared at him vacantly aiyl 
shook my head. Not unnaturally he seemed 
astonished, but feeling that I was past all 
judgment I told him to bring me what he would 
provided it was accompanied by a bottle of 
good red wine. I ate and drank, but the cloud 
by no means lifted from me. I saw no light 
anywhere. In front erf me stood, as it were, 
the promise I had given to Johnson. I am 
Vot Ivii.— 1 Copyright. 1918, 

usually a silent man, but P like many who do 
not express themselves freely, am apt at times 
of stress to utter my thoughts aloud. It is 
possible that but for this 1 might have gone 
home to my chambers and blown my brains' out* 
As I spoke and said aloud — " I'm desperate/* 
a man at the itejet table turned about, looked 
me in the facc P and said : — 

" So am I ! How goes it, Clayton ? J * 

It whs years sninee 1 had met Mark ham* 1 
knew that he had gone in for flying at the 
commencement of the war* I had heard that 
Markham was no longer in the Service- It 
had not surprised me to learn that he had been 
invalided out on account of his disposition. 
He certainly had an unequalled reputation 
for * rashness, Markham was a very odd- 
looking man, eagle-faced and tense, with deeply- 
set, piercing black eyes. I always thought him 
interesting, and at this moment I would have 
greeted a friend from Bedlam with ardour, 

" Tell me everything/' said Markham* -l Why 
are you desperate ? 

1 did not reply as I might have done by asking 
him why he, too, was in a similar frame of mind, 
but poured out my troubles to him with a per* 
fectly extraordinary loquacity very rare in me 
at any time, I told him of my promise to 
Johnson and the impossibility of its fulfilment* 

" I haven't a single idea ha my head/' I said, 
almost in teart>iginarfrorri 



11 Mine is bursting withrthem/' said Markham. 
" Come I Cheer up 1 I will confide in you." 

" Confide ! " I exclaimed. " Confide what ? " 

" I dreamt of you last night/' said Markham* 

I knew that one of Markham 's odd notions 
was that he had conversations with people in 
dreams relevant to the actual facts of life. 
Some would say this was madness. I am not 
one of those who dub all peculiarities as symp- 
toms of cerebral decay. I have them myself. 

" You and I talked," said Markham. "I 
confided in you ; you promised to help me. 
You are coming with me to my place in Essex." 

" What for ? " said I. " Explain ! " 

" I will— in Essex," said Markham. " Come 1 " 

With that he summoned the waiter and, 
insisting on paying my bill together with his 
own, bestowed sufficient backsheesh on the 
Italian to make him bow to the ground. 

" As you may know/* said Markham, as we 
left the restaurant, " I am a rich man." 

" I had heard as much. What's all this 
about Essex ? " I asked. 

" Never mind," said Markham. " Are you 
married ? " 

" I am not married," I replied. 

" I am," said Markham. " It is a happy 
marriage. I live in Essex and my wife lives 
m Northumberland. We write to each other 
regularly at Christmas. Come." 

We found Ms car in a garage in Coventry 
Street. His skill in driving was such that my 
hair stood on end. Though the streets of town 
were as dark as they have ever been during the 
war and the traffic by no means exiguous, he 
seemed to possess the eyes of an owl and the 
rapid judgment of a peregrine falcon. When 
he had three times been summoned to stop by 
futile and panting policemen, and had happily 
missed six vehicles with no more than a scratch 
of his paint, we found ourselves on the main 
road to Colchester. I now had time to con- 
sider what looked like a rash proceeding on 
my part. If my old friend began so wildly 
in a ninety horse-power motor-car what was 
the end to be ? 

The hour, the circumstances, the humming, 
purring car, the dark night and sudden change 
put me into a dream. From the moment I 
had given my word to Johnson my life had 
become a whirlpool ; I was sucked into the 
centre of a storm. The wild night would have 
seemed even more dreamlike to me when we 
approached Markham's house through dark 
winding woods if it had not been for a curious 
accident which throws a light upon his character. 
As we swept down the long drive he suddenly 
put his left hand on my shoulder and saying 
" Sit down," actually thrust me off the seat 
to the bottom of the car, and at the same time 
accelerating his speed went smash through a 
closed gate without even cracking the wind- 
screen or losing his equanimity. 

" I told the fools to keep it open," said Mark- 
ham. " But here we are ! " 

It was about eleven o'clock when we arrived, 
smd the night was peculiarly quiet and beautiful. 

" The moon rises about twelve," said Markham, 

and I let the remark pass, though I wondered 
subconsciously what we had to do with the moon. 
I was soon to find out. 

A silent servant took away the car, but before 
he did so Markham said to him : — 

" Tell Baker that I drove through the gate 
which he ought to have left open. I shall 
take him for a drive to-morrow." 

He explained to me that he never discharged 
a servant but suited the punishment to the 
crime. Baker, it appeared, though an admirable 
gardener, had a perfect terror of motoring. 

" He will never again leave a gate shut when 
I tell him to leave it open," said Markham, as we 
entered the house. " Now, we must have 
supper. After that, we will get to work." 

" What work ? " I asked. 

44 Wait and see," said Markham, and I forebore 
to question him. Though, as a rule, the least 
suggestible of men, I seemed completely at 
Markham's mercy. The truth is that I had 
not been myself for days. And there I was, 
sitting opposite my remarkable friend, eating 
and drinking, somewKere in the county of Essex, 
but with no notion of where it was upon the map. 

" Eat," said Markham; " you will need it." 

" Why ? " said I. 

" I will tell you presently," he answered. 

When supper was* over he rose. 

" I suppose you do not know why I was 
invalided, as they call it, out of the Service ? " 
asked Markham, as he led the way out of doors. 

I refrained from saying that I had heard the 
authorities thought him mad. My delicacy was 

" They said I was m^d, or that's what they 
meant," said Markham. " Do you know what 
it was that made all the big bugs and the officials 
consider me insane ? " 

He stopped and eyed me as we came out of 
the wood and passed into the light of the rising 

" What was it ?" I asked. 

" I protested against the burning of Zeppelins," 
he replied, shortly. 


" Yes," said Markham, vigorously. " I said 
that instead of destroying them, they should 
catch them and bring them home." 

" Enormous 1 " said I. " Had yon a plan ? " 

"Forty," replied Markham, "but one was 
enough. They received my suggestion with 

" And then ? " said I. 

" I boxed the ears of a damned War Office 
clerk," said Markham. 

He opened a gate and motioned me to precede 
him into a flat meadow. Within thirty feet 
of us I perceived something which might have 
surprised me if I had not known my friend. It 
was an aeroplane, a somewhat ancient bus, known 
to the Flying Corps as a rumpity I I had done 
a little flying myself. 

" Do you know what this is ? " asked Markham. 

" A rumpity, of course," I replied. I climbed 
up and touched the engine. It was quite warm. 
But I suspected nothing ! 

" It was," said Markham. " I have improved 



it. Beardmore buijt me a special engine. I have 
' added a number of gadgets to it. A speaking-tube 
with a new megaphone attached, electric lights 
of all kinds, and a number of ideas which I shall 
never impart to anybody for fear I might be put 
Into a lunatic asylum." 

I asked the use of some great hooks on.the skids. 

* - I'll show you presently/' said Markham. 

I shifted into the observer's seat, and Markham 
got in after me. He pointed out many things 
which were new. 

" This," he said, " is an invention of my own." 
He held up something dimly resembling a coat. 
" You will find one at your feet ; try it." • 

" What is it ? " I asked. 

" A parachute coat," said Markham. " As you 
will observe, there are certain springs in it. If 
you pull this particular strap, the parachute part 
of the contraption instantly expands. All you 
have to do if you are thrown out of the bus is 
to pull that strap and you will come down in 
perfect safety. Put it on ; it's quite comfortable 
and very warm. It's also a life-belt." 

I did as I was told. 

" My starting fakement is perfectly admirable," 
said Markham. " The moon is going to be very 
bright, although it's only a half moon," he added, 
irrelevantly. " Sit down ; let us have a talk. 
Try my apparatus. Put it over your ears. It's 
a wireless operator's head-piece." 

I did as I was told, and when he spoke to me 
through his end of the machine, I was quite ready 
to believe that the observer might hear what he 
said> even when the engine fras going. His voice 
nearly split the drum of my ear. 

" 111 show you how my self-starter works," he 
said, abruptly, and the next minute he opened up 
the engine, and the pusher bus began to move 
across the long flat meadow* 

" Here, I say ! " I began, but Markham 
laughed, a&id pulling the apparatus from his ears, 
I knew that nothing I said could reach him. 

It was a curious situation, but it is a quality 
of mine to reconcile myself to the inevitable. 
I do not cry loudly over spilt milk, and to remon- 
strate with Markham being entirely out of my 
power, I saw there was nothing to do but accept 
the situation. I do not profess to be braver 
than the next man, but acceptation is for ever 
an anodyne. I began, even while I felt angry, to 
perceive peculiar compensations. It is true that 
I cursed Markham, but, curiously enough, I felt 
less and less angry with him, and when we rose 
to about four thousand feet I forgot about 
Johnson, and was suddenly freed from all 
anxiety and fear and became not so much a man 
as part of the machine. Markham and I and 
the engine seemed one rather than three. I even 
had something of that feeling of power which 
comes to those in glorious insecurity on the 
knife edge of a perilous ardte. 

I could now perceive that Markham meant 
to do something desperate, but it was only when 
we got above the clouds, and I perceived the 
south-east moon rise from them as beautifully 
as the fabled Aphrodite, that the real truth came 
to me. I wondered if I could get him to speak. 
I turned to him and ngned that I desired to have 

a little conversation. In the light of the moon 
he, no doubt, perceived < that I was a different 
man. Perhaps he had judged me rightly; 
I cannot deny that in some ways he was a genius. 
Perhaps he thought it was time to come to an 
explanation, perceiving my qualities, qualities 
I had hardly discerned in myself before. He 
appeared uplifted and joyful, and putting on his 
listening cap made a humorous face at toe and 
prepared to listen. 

" What are you going to do ? " I asked. 
" This is no joy-ride, I imagine." 

His voice came to me in the roar of the engine, 
like a whisper to my brain. 

" It shall be the greatest joy-ride of your life," 
said Markham. * 

" How much farther are you going ? " 
I demanded. 

11 Let the Germans say," he replied. " I am 
going to attack a Zeppelin." 

" Attack a Zeppelin ! " cried I. 

" Not only' that," said Markham, " I am going 
to catch one. I mean to show the Admiralty 
what I think of them. Imagine their astonish- 
ment when we land in London I " 

" You never explained how you were going 
to do it," said I. 

" In the old sea-fashion/' said Markham. 
" I shall board them." 

" Board them 1 " I gasped. 

" Easily," said Markham. " You asked me 
the meaning of those hooks upon the carriage. 
When you pull this lever they shoot out and 
will catch in the envelope and framework of 
the Zeppelin." 

The idea was magnificent, but it was, of course, 
ridiculous. How could a 'plane with a landing 
speed of forty miles an hour at the very least 
hook into a Zeppelin without smashing herself 
utterly to pieces and hurling her crew to 

" What about the wind -pressure on our planes 
when we hook on ? " I asked, incredulously. 
" She'll tear out and go base over apex I " 

"I've arranged for that," said Markham. 
" When I pull this lever these stays will part and 
the planes go pop, leaving us as we are." 

" It can't be done," r^said. 

*Clt will be done," said Markham. " I shall 
get above her, pancake down, and there we 
are ! " 

" Ah, there we are," I mutttred, looking over 
the side. 

" With this machiae-gun," said Markham, 

" you will clear what we may call the upper 

v deck, and I, with a bomb in each hand, will go to 

their stairway and summon them to surrender." 

" Will they ? " I asked. 

" If not I shall bomb them to blazes," said 
Markham. " And, relying on the parachutes, 
we have nothing to fear." 

" And if they do surrender ? " I demanded, 

I saw him plainly in the light of the moon. 
His eager face was that of a genius and a madman 
at once. 

" Ah ! " he exclaimed n " then from the back 
of the monster I issue my orders. They steer 



for London in broad daylight* and we land 
in the Horse Guards Parade ! " 

I will not put down what I said to him. I 
cursed him by all my gods, by the Olympian 
hierarchy, and even' by peculiar creatures 
storied in Talmudip angelology, while I added 
strange oaths drawn from ancient memories. 
But he only laughed. 

" You are mad," I exclaimed, angrily. 

" So the infernal R.A.M.C. men said," replied 
Markham, with an extraordinary chuckle, and 
then he took the listening apparatus from his 
ears and I knew remonstrances were vain. I 
turned away and, sinking back in .my seat, 
looked up to the moon as if she were some kind 
of a deity who could help me. At that very 
moment she was peculiarly eclipsed ! 

I declare that only then did I adequately 
realize what might be before me. I was face 
to face with it, for the shadow across the moon 
was undoubtedly the blunt and pointed nose 
of that which my fantastic friend and enemy 
upon my right desired to hunt down. I had 
read stories of whaling, magnificent with the 
splendour of far-off seas, but what, w^s the 
spermaceti itself, though full of WTath, to this 
great devil-fish of the upper air that little 
magnificent Markham proposed to capture 
and lead home with a ring in its hose ? Going 
back through the great tangle of recalled sen- 
sations, I remember a wild phantasmagoria 
of ny mind in which every flower of emotion, 
mean or grand, showed in the undergrowth. 
Yet I caught something from Markham. I was 
a fool, the merest cur, a hero, and a madman I* 
What the visions of drowning men are I know 
not, but as we swept through the deep seas 
of the upper air past days came back to me 
and long-desired departed friends seemed near 
at hand. I even saw Johnson's strange and 
enigmatic figure as a brooding Buddha, cross- 
legged on his throne, considering the disasters 
he had brought upon me. It is in such an hour 
of exaltation that our personalities open like 
some sacred secret book. And now right 
across the half -occulted moon I saw her shape, the 
shape of the flying devil-fish that Markham 
desired, flying towards England like the scud 
among the clouds of moonland. I felt Markham 
grip my shoulder and turned to- look at him. 
In the moonlight I saw him smile ; he threw 
his head back and laughed, though I could hear 
no sound in the immense roar of the engine. 
As we climbed, his face was superhuman, glorious. 

And all at once in this emotional flood I 
sat securely perched upon some lofty peak of 
utter and deep calm. Markham himself instead 
of being a superman was a superhuman jest. 
How magnificently he had played upon me ; 
it made death itself seem humorous. But a 
little while ago I had supped Chianti in Soho 
and, before I met Johnson, had walked in Picca- 
dilly not without satisfaction. As I considered 
these things I saw Markham put on the head- 
piece of the 'phone. 

" You understand your part ? " he asked. 

" No/' I replied, " far from it ! " 

" When we board her " began Markham. 

" Board ! " I said. " You madman ! " 

And he replied, calmly : — 

" When we touch pull those levers ! " 

I heard him speak again. 

" If there are any men at the machine-giu. 
on the top when we touch her, I shall sweep her 
decks with this one." 

All at once this seemed so easy that it became 
quite a natural thing. I actually laughed, 
and^ even as I did so we hit a cloud and with a 
" bump " passed into obscurity. The effect 
of the 'whitish rack iA which we found ourselves 
was peculiarly magical and at once soothing 
and •uplifting. I seemed wholly lost to the 
world, to the very universe, but indeed perhaps 
the machine had itself become the universe. 
Wc were all that was, all mankind, lonely, 
forlorn, forsaken upon some black-winged 
thunder-planet, alien from the stars I knew. 
Then again the clouds became rolling smoke, 
and, thinning rapidly, were but faint wreaths, 
and there was a golden moment for me as we 
cleft the last mass of floating mist and saw the 
great half-moon once more. We shot into a 
perfect night of wonderful calm, a cloud valley 
very beautiful and wholly serene. For a moment 
I forgot myself, Markham, our mad and perilous 
errand, and far beneath as it were in my own 
mind's oceanic depths, I saw* with sudden 
humorous pity that fantast- Johnson, praying 
on his knees for a gift from me. Once more 
like the gods upon Olympus I smiled, careless 
of the cries of men. It would be impossible 
to tell one ten-thousandth "" fraction of the 
thoughts that swept through me, for if the earth 
was gone time itself was lost. And then sud- 
denly Markham throttled down the engine 
and in the lesser purr she made I heard him speak. 

" Did you see her ? ' Did you see her ? " 

He pointed towards the left wing, and as he 
spoke I looked over the side and in a whirling 
gap of the mist 'below I saw a gigantic silver 
£sh. Half of her was silver, the rest the colour 
of the night, and in another gap beneath her I 
beheld a wrinkled, sparkling floor, a pavement 
of silver and opal flame that I knew to be the 
sea. I cried out and pointed down, down, 
and Markham once more opened up, took on 
speed again, and then again throttled down 
and dived, while I hung to my seat breathless, 
unfearful, exalted, and triumphant, 

A sense of glorious security came over me. , 
I believed not only in Markham but in myself . 
And then once more the swirling mist held us. 
Yet, presently, as we swept into a clear space, 
I saw, among the waves leaping under the 
hidden moon, some war -ship. At the very 
moment I caught sight of her a flash leapt out, 
and in a second or two a bursting shell below 
us smote the clouds asunder. As Markham shut 
off and dived again, the reverberations of the 
bursting shell thrown back from white cliff walls 
of whirling clouds smote our sudden silence. 
I looked over the side again. Was that shadow 
in the clouds beneath us her we sought ? It was ! 
Her vast bulk rose through the parting mists, 
a huge white whale of the empyrean. She cleft 
them as e, wl&le breaches. 7 almost looked for 


the spout of a gigantic cachalot, 
and remembered that great 
hunting in the tale of " Moby 
Dick-" Here we were the 
iiunters and there below us 
was our prey. And as Mark- 
ham once more shut off and 
dived, I heard him shout with 
joy. We spiralled down, till 
right below us was the very 
bulk of the cloud -devil Ji fling 
herself cldar, a thing of snow 
ur silver in the white light ot 
the moon. 

The next moment we saw the 
Zeppelin's snout rise from the 
clouds beneath us. She was 
going west as we were. With 
one dive, Markham swept down 
uponber. As he flattened out, 
I expected a shock. It came 
when we landed on her silver shining back 
and her stern dipped a little with our weight. 
Vs I pulled furiously on my Levers, Mark- 
ham switched off and wrenched at his. There 
was a fearful crash and the planes parted 
from us like paper, leaving the nacelle hooked 
tirmly fore and aft in her envelope and frame* 
work. Then the machine-gun which Mark- 
ham ha nil led spoke furiously in the din the 
Zeppelin's motors made, I saw the sparkle of 
the Zeppelin's machine-gun answer from the little 
.ircular enclosure by the steps that led down 
through her structure. Some bullets struck the 
wreck of our machine, but si ill Markham s 




pun spat fire, and the next moment 1 saw the 
machine gunner of the Zeppelin fall across the 
light rati which surrounded his platform, 
Markham leapt from his sirat with one bound 
and ran with his revolver in his hand. I saw then 
that there was another German than the one who 
lay across the rail, hi a moment he and 
Markham were at hand -grips. 1 followed as 
fast as 1 could r/un h feeling beneath my feet the 
strange resilience and strength, and yet fragility, 
of the vast machine on which we had landed. 
I smelt the rising smell of petrol and strange 

gases. Original from 

As l^*SWl5FWfflfflff my kw,w,ed8e 



of what happened, but I know that as I came up 
to the gun platform and saw Markham kneeling 
on the chest of the German he had overpowered, 
I saw the white contorted face of the dead man, 
who lay, like a bloody fleece, limp upon the rail. 
Then I remembered that Markham and I were, 
neither of us. in the Service, and from the German 
point of view would not be regarded as prisoners 
of war if we failed, but would be liable to instant 
death. That, perhaps, made me desperate. 
I saw a head rise from the pit below, and threw 
myself upon the man as he leapt from the ladder. 
He was insensible when I loosed my grip upon 
his throat. I turned, and saw Markham take a 
piece of rope from his pocket and tie up the 
German he had captured, lashing him to one of 
the standards of the rail. 

" We've got them ! " said Markham. " Keep 
your man and see that no one else comes up." 

He gave me a revolver. Then he ran back to 
our machine, and taking out of her two bombs 
brought them to the platform and laid them 

" Do they know we're here ? " I asked. And 
at that moment I heard Markham 's other pistol 


" Yes," said Markham, " they know by now ! " 

I saw a white hand thrown up above the black 
pit, and heard a cry. 

" Keep your eye on them while I speak to this 
man," said Markham. 

He went to the one I had captured, who 
showed signs of returning consciousness. Mark- 
ham spoke in German to him. In the moonlight, 
Ij&aw our friend grin sickly. By his uniform. 
I knew he was an officer. Markham called him 
Ober-Lieutenant. \ 

" What are you saying to him ? " I asked. 

" I've ordered him to tell the skipper that we 
have captured them." 

Our captive could speak English. As soon as 
he recovered some self-possession, he told us as 
much, perhaps finding English easier than 
Markham 's German. 

" What do you want me to do ? " he asked. 

" Go below," said Markham, " and tell your 
commander that he's captured. If he does not 
surrender, we will drop bombs down upon you 
and blow you up." 

" So 1 " said the Hun. " But you 11 die then." 

Markham laughed. 

" And if we surrender ? " asked the German. 

" You are to steer straight for London," said 

" We meant to," grinned the German. 

Markham held his pistol to the man s head. 

" Go down and say what I tell you. As soon 
as day comes you will hang out a white flag. 
Land upon the Horse Guards Parade. No 
doubt you know it.** 

" It's all impossible ! " said the German, half 
to himself. 

I could see he half thought it a dream, for 
surely the thing was impossible I And yet, we 
had done it ! 

" Go," said Markham. 

" Good," said the lieutenant. " Horse Guards 
Parade ! Mein GoU I " 

But he went obediently. I remember him 
quite well, a hard sort of fellow, not, perhaps, a 
bad sort, according to his lights, a fair, blue-eyed 
man with a touch of humour at other times, if his 
mouth told the truth. I remember him as keen \ y 
as if he were photographed upon my brain, as the 
moonlight left his amazed face when he dis- 
appeared down the ladder. And once more w<- 
heard, if not the roar of guns, the sound of 
bursting shell in the clouds about us. 

" Those dratted fools down there may hit us, * 
said Markham. " What a waste ! To think of 
our people burning Zeppelins I It's monstrous." 

Then we heard a shout from below. 

" Herr Englandex 1 " 

" Don't look down/' said Markham, as I 

" I come from the captain," said the voice. 
" We do it all as you say." 

Markham laughed madly. He slapped hia 
thigh and bent double. 

" To London, to London ! " 

I saw the amazed town filling Trafalgar 
Square and Whitehall and beheld a turbulent 
sea of white faces looking up at us from the 
Horse Guards Parade. The roof of the Treasury 
and the Foreign Office blackened ; the windows 
opened. From the War Office and the Admi- 
ralty came generals and admirals to join 4he 
amazed throng. Heroes I By the Great Horn 
Spoon and the Tail of fhe Sacred Bull, there 
never were such heroes as Markham and myself I 
How meekly I should accept their congratu- 
lations while I endeavoured to calm Markham 
as he told the Lord High Muckamuck of the 
Admiralty what he thought of him 1 

I took him by the arm, and as the roar of the 
Zepp's engines deafened us, I shouted : — 

" When we land take my advice' and don't 
speak your mind. Say very simply, ' Sir, wc 
bring you a Zeppelin.' " 

" You— you think that best ? " asked Mark- 

" I do. Those words will make you immortal," 
I answered. 

He shook my hand. 

" You too will be immortal," said Markham. 

Then that cursed cruiser caught sight of us 
again. Once more a shell burst close. A piece 
of shrapnel whizzed between me and Markham. 

" Curse her." cried Markham, angrily " I 
hope our friends below will drop a bomb on her." 

We knew our prize was trying to ascend. 
Whatever way they went they did not desire 
to go down in names. But a clear space opened 
suddenly around us ; the mist departed ; we 
saw the moon, the wrinkled petulant sea, and 
shell after shell exploded. One burst in or 
so close to the airship that she pitched and 
rolled like a derelict in a cross sea off the Cape. 

" Damnation," said Markham, as he grasped 
the rail to which T clung. " Back to the bus 1 " 

We crawled to it, and as we reached it a wreath 
of smoke came from the depths of the Zepp. 

" Fire ! " said Markham, as the vast machine 
rose like a ship taking her last dive. I knew his 
mind more dr ar?y than, my own. There were 

no Tfflft&Woftiil&IIGBl} 11 *"* supreroc 





moment I accepted death. Calmly I declare 
it, and I deny wholly and utterly that I was 
afraid. The chances of being saved by the 
.parachute were to my mind less than nothing. 
Yet I saw Markham pull at the straps of his own. 
The springs worked. He seemed in the lighted 
darkness to grow suddenly gigantic. He was 
an immense mushroom, a fungus of the night, 
a growth on the Zeppelin. T I did as he did 
and then slipped, grasped at something, missed 
it, dropped like a stone, and lost consciousness 
as I saw a huge flame light the sky above us. 
Then life came back to me. I was alone. A 
great flare was overhead, drifting westward. 
Above me my parachute spread like a huge 
umbrella. I saw the moon again, and passing 
through clouds beheld the sea in huge wrinkles 
divided into patterns by the low waves of 
destroyers that were like black water-beetles. 
Then I saw the cruiser which had wrecked our 
triumph. But where was Markham ? And 
then I heard him within twenty feet of me ! 
He was shouting my name. I was unable to 
speak but waved my hand. However it came 
that he had been behind me it was now certain 
that he floated downward faster than I. He 
shouted again, and what he said was : — 

" See you later ! " 

He was a remarkable man. As his black 
mushroom passed I felt strangely alone. Should 
f. float if I ever reached the sea, or was drowning 
to be the end ? I still heard the roar of *the 
flame overhead. Dreadful things dropped from 
the sky and with them portions of floating 
wreckage. Wisps of the burning envelope 
filled the air. I peered out under my fantastic 
machine and saw a moonlit cloud thrust open 
by something of burning gold, as if a ruddy 
flower grew out of snow. I saw the whole 
vast fabric dive like some burning, sinking 
ship. But this dreadful thing was not extin- 
guished as she reeled downward to the sea. 
Once on land I had seen an airship of ruby, 
glowing like a sevenfold heated furnace, go to 
her doom entire, an^yet once more I had seen 
a greater Zeppelin rip in two as she spouted 
flame and dropped dreadfully earthwards. 
They had been far from me, but now I felt the 
burning heat as the flaming derelict plunged 
past me roaring. Swifter and swifter still 
she fell. None lived in her now as she blotted 
out the moon in the quiet sky, and then, as I 
sweated and agonized, a cool breeze lapped me 
in Elysium and the moon shone once more 
as that swift downward hell dropped swaying 
to the leaping sea and was at last engulfed. 

And underneath I saw the black cruiser ,put 
her helm over and go in a great circle. Where 
was Markham ? Would they save him ? And 
what of me? .... 

When L. came to I found myself upon the 
deck of the cruiser with men around me. I 
struggled back to life and found that I was soak- 
ing. A naval doctor had his lingers on my 
wrist. But suddenly I sat up. 

" Where's Markham ? " I cried. 

" Why, the blighter's' not a Hun," said a 
young officer. 

Digitized by LiOOQ U? 

" Take it easily, gently does it," said the 

I grasped his arm and cried out. " I haven't 
time. I must think of Johnson." 

And then I heard Markham 's angry voice 
overhead. I looked up and saw him, an absurd 
and struggling figure, dancing wildly in the 
wireless gear above us, half-smothered in the 
linip folds ot his parachute. 

"Let me out of this, confound you all," 
he roared. 

*' By all that's holy, we've got two madmen 
out of the sky," said the young officer. 

Then,, I came back to myself and struggled 
to my feet. Up aloft they were hacking with 
knives at the tangle of gear in which Markham 
was involved. But even before they got his 
head free he turned himself loose and addressed 
the deck in language that was appalling. 

" What the devil does he mean by his Zep- 
pelin ? " asked the doctor. 

" His and mine," I replied. " We — we cap- 
tured it. And you burnt it." 

They say I burst into tears. I saw another 
officer close to me. He spoke. So did Markham. 

" Is that you, Bates ? " 

" Great Scot ! " said Captain Bates. " That's 
Jimmy Markham 's voice ! " 

" When I get down I'll murder you," said 
Markham. M We'd captured that Zepp and 
you came interfering, as you always did." 

They "lowered Markham to the deck. No 
sooner was he loosed than he *vent for Captain 
Bates like a bull. Two seamen stopped him. 
He downed one and three more got him* 

" Easy," said the skipper. " Don't hurt him." 

They seemed tt> forget all about me as they 
reduced Markham to mere speech. I think 
many of the officers and men enjoyed hi« brief 
character sketch of Captain Bates. 1 regret 
to say that it is unprintable. I got hold of the 
nearest officer. 

" What I want is a pen and ink and some 
paper," I said. " Any paper will do." 

He shook me off, for he seemed to want to 
listen to Markham. I believe they called him 
the purser. Then I tackled the paymaster. 

" What I want is a? pen and ink," I began. 
But he, too, wanted to hear what Markham 
thought of the skipper. I went up to the doctor, 
but he was busy with a hypodermic syringe. 
Perhaps he did not like scandal, for with the 
help of the damaged sailors he jabbed it into 
Markham s arm, and lor fee he got a black eye. 
After that Markham calmed down. I was glad, 
and went up to Captain Bates and said : — 

" What I want is a pen and ink and parser. 
Any paper will do." 

And what he said was :- — 

" Take this wet thing away and give it pens 
and ,all the ink in the ship and all' the paper 
we have." 

So the doctor took me away and dried me 
and gave me hot whisky and things of his own, 
and I sat down and wrote to Johnson, the 
accursed Editor, who* wouldn't let me off that 
story for his confounded Christmas number. 
And whatijj^j^^lifpgry^his 1 




THE STRAND MAGAZINE delight* to tell of men who Hnd a thrill in work, whether it is 
developing a magician' 9 trick, or making a scientific discovery, or organizing a business. 

Houdini woe born in Applet on, Wisconsin, 46 years ago. He ran away when he was 
sixteen and joined a circus, later appearing in small theatres as a magician. In 1900 he 
made a success in Europe, and since that tone his career has been a spectacular one. 

Two things have made Harry Houdini the greatest magician alive. The first is his natural 
power of dislocating and "relocating" his joints, enabling him to escape from chains and 
strait-jackets. The other is the way he works to invent and to perfect new tricks* 

He speaks here of thrills. Bat he gets these thrills because he is more interested in his 
work than in anything eise in the world. That is one secret of success. It is at the root of 
all achievement. 

UST suppose a pickpocket knew 
I was watching him sharply. 
It isn't very probable that he 
would try to pick my pocket 
while I had my eye or* him. 
Vet that is just the condition 
under which a magician has 
to work. You know that I shall 
attempt to fool you, and so you keep your eye 
" peeled " from the moment I step on the stage. 
So it is really in self-defence that magicians 
have had to learn many curious little traits of 
human beings. Our tricks themselves would 
often fail if we had not studied you as closely as 
we have studied the technique of our business. 

One of the greatest factors in our success, for 
instance, is our ability to make you look in 
any direction we want. When I shout, " Look ! 
The box is empty ! " or, " See ! I have nothing 
up my sleeves ! " I do it just to make you keep 
your eyes glued on the box or my sleeves. Then, 
while your attention is riveted on those things, 
I make the moves necessary for the completion 
of the trick. If you watched me and not the 
box, or my sleeves, you might catch 'me red- 
handed. But for the necessary few seconds you 
forget to do it ; because, at my command, your 
eyes involuntarily turn. I've been a magician 
for more than thirty years, and still I myself 
always have trouble to keep my eyes from turn- 
ing at the command of a fellow-magician. It is 
a natural reaction. 

Suppose I want to use a short flight of steps 
from the stage down to the audience. I never 
have a carpet on them, because while I am trans- 
ferring a watch or producing an egg from a hat 
I tramp heavily, and so draw your attention to 
my feet. If I think the audience is watching me 
too closely, I signal my assistant to drop some- v 
thing, or to make some sudden movement. If 
I want a chair, table, or basket brought on the 
stage, and don't want you to see it, I simply 
walk to the opposite side of the stage. I know 

from experience that people's eyes follow the 
magician, unless he deliberately directs them 
elsewhere. All. these things are simple methods 
of diverting attention, and yet they are very , 

To avert all suspicion from our assistants we 
make them seem as awkward and clumsy as 
possible. We have them drop things, stumble 
over chairs, and make* mistakes of a minor 
nature. We want you to get the idea that 
these men play no real part in the performance 
of our tricks ; whereas, of course, they are most 
important cogs in our work. Once I was sitting 
next to a woman who kept exclaiming at the 
clumsiness of one of the cleverest assistants I 
have ever seen. Instead of the magician doing 
the work, the assistant was really doing nine- 
tenths of the tricks. Yet he acted his part so 
well that this woman finally said, " My I how 
clumsy that man is I I wonder why the magician 
keeps him ? " I might have told her that without 
that assistant the magician wouldn't have been 
on the stage himself. 

All magicians know that the average person 
never raises or lowers his eyes very much. Most 
people just look on a straight level. Therefore, 
whenever we use tables fitted up with magic 
devices, we always raise them slightly above the 
level of the eye, so that when you think you 
are looking at the top of the table you are 
not. Really to see the top you would have to 
raise your- eyes ; and as that would be an effort 
you just don't do it. 

Magicians, however, are not the only ones 
who know the actions of the human eye. Shop- 
keepers have long known that if signs announcing 
prices are moved a few inches higher or lower 
than the level of the eye people don't see them. 
As soon as the signs were moved business at 
once dropped a notch. 

Here is another point about the eye that 
business men may not know : it is that human 
beings always look a little more toward the 




right than toward the left. Magicians utilize 
the point by doing their most difficult tricks on 
the left-hand aide of the stage rather than on 
the right/ In that way, of course, we make it 
harder for you to detect us. Were I in business, 
however, and had anything especially attractive 
to sell , I should certainly spend some extra 
time in dressing the window on the right, or the 
counter that would strike the right eye upon 
entering the shop, so that the customer's first 
glance would fall on something that appealed to 

People sometimes ask me why magicians 
always have the stage as light as possible* " I 
should think it would be easier for you," a man 
once said, " if the sXage were just slightly 
dimmed.* I explained to him that we prefer 
the lull glare of the lights on the stage, jiot only 
because we want to avert the claim that people 
can't see what we are doing, but also because 
we know that the glare of the lights helps to 
blind you. 

Passing from the eye to the ear, most people 
know, I suppose, that it ia our patter that mis- 
leads them more than any tiling else. We talk 



at you, not because we have anytliing worth 
wliile to say, but simply to keep your ears 
working while we are doing our tricks. If wc 
were silent you could concentrate the powers of 
all your senses in your eye*;. But by tafkmg we 
make you divide your attention. You have to 
liirten and to look at the same time- 

1 have always found that it was easier to 
mislead the eye than the ear. Many people can 
control their hearing to some degree, but no one 
has control over his sight* 

With individuals, strange as it may seem, it 
is always easier to fool a bright and well -educated 
man than one not &o well informed. The reason 
is that the learned man, instead of thinking 
clearly and simply, at once jumps to some com- 
plex explanation. He skips the obvious thing 
and tries to work on a deep, scientific basis ; 
whereas the ordinary individual, not having a 
great fund of knowledge, thinks only of the 
simple and obvious — and sometimes hits it I 

A great proof of this is that all magicians are 
shy of working before children. The child's mind 
is naturally sceptical when it comes to something 
he does not understand, and so he is difficult to 


Speaking of in- 
dividuals reminds 
me of the amusing 
experience 1 once 
had with Mr. 
Roosevelt. We 
were both return- 
ing from London 
on the same 
steamer. No an- 
nouncement had 
lieeu made as to 
what boat he was 
sailing on, but 
when 1 went to the 
ticket -office the 
clerk told me I 
was to have Mr. 
Roosevelt as a fel- 
low-passenger, I 
was interested, ol 
co u rse, and, 
knowing that 
people on steam- 
er* always call on 
me for an exhibi- 
tion of magic, 1 
deckled to have 
some fun with 
that distinguished 

This was the 
time when Mr, 
Roosevelt was re- 
turning from 
South America 
with the an- 
nou nc em e at abou t 
the River of 
Doubt. He had 
given a map ol Ids 
explorations to a 




London newspaper and it was to be published 
three days after the steamer sailed. No one, 
with the exception of Mr. Roosevelt and one 
of two other persons, knew the details of that 
map, and so I decided to get a copy and spring 
a r surprise on him. 

How I got the copy I must not tell, but I 
did obtain one without much trouble. On the 
second day after leaving London I was asked to 
give a spiritualistic seance and answer questions. 
I was sure that so moo tie would ask me to draw 
a map of Mr. Roosevelt a explorations, and, 
sure enough* Teddy, with a chuckle, asked the 
question himself. He was having a grand time, 
thinking he had caught me ; but when I started 
to draw the map his eyes nearly popped out of 
his head, He was the most surprised person I 
wer saw, and rushing up to me he exclaimed, 
" Buliy 1 Bully ! That is the most amazing 
thing I have ever seen i " 

Many persons ask me what particular tricks 
people like to see. Well, that depends, oi 
course, on the kind of audience. Women like 
to see the rapid appearance of flowers, canary- 
birds, silks — things which they handle in their 
daily hie. Men, on 
the other hand, like 
card tricks, any* 
thing that involves 
Cigars, or anything 
like extricating 
oneself from milk- 
cans, handcuffs, or 
heavily - weighted 
trunks thrown into 
deep water. Dan- 
ger appeals to men, 
whereas it doesn't 
to women. 

people are also 
much more inter- 
ested in seeing 
things disappear 
than in seeing them 
appear. When you 
make tilings appear . 
they say* " Oh, he 
had it on him all 
the time 1 " But 
when you make 
things disappear 
they arc amazed, 
That w why I 
make my ten 
thousand five hun- 
dred pound ele- 
phant disappear in 
a second at the 
New York Hippo- 
drome rather than 
bring him out of 
the air. The idea 
of making a tea 
thousand hve hun- 
dred pound ele- 
phant vanish is 

It is when you do the " impossible M that 
people sit up and gasp. That is why, of course. 
I do a different sensational trick every year. 
This year I am making the elephant disappear, 
and am also doing the needle trick, which is to 
swallow two hundred needles and one hundred 
feet oi thread, and bring forth, before your eyes, 
all the needles threaded. 

In late years, however, I have been combining 
feats of extrication with my magical work, and 
sometimes I think that these stunts hold 
far greater thrills for me than they have even 
for the spectators, I have been escaping from 
trunks which were chained and locked before 
being thrown into deep water, breaking from 
packing-cases and strong jails, and getting out 
of handcuffs and ropes while hanging head 
downward from the roofs of high buildings. 

In this sort of trick it is the element of danger 
that interests people* They do not wish to 
see me killed, of course, but are more in- J 
teres ted in a stunt if they think there is danger 
attached to it. If a crowd sees a man painting 
a roof of a ten -storey building, it passes by. If 
that man slips, however, and hangs with one 




by Google 



hand to the edge of the roof, a crowd collects in 
a moment. Human beings don't like to see 
other human beings lose their lives ; but they 
do love to be on the spot when it happens. 

It is this element of danger that makes my 
Chinese torture-cell a good trick. Before doing 
the trick the audience sees the narrow glass 
case filled with water and my legs clamped with 
a three hundred and fifty pound weight. It then 
watches me as I am lowered, head downward, 
into the water. In sight of the audience the 
case is then locked and closed. 

The danger in this trick is, oi course, that 
unless I free myself I shall drown. That is why 
an assistant always stands with an axe in hand 
in front of the glass case so* that, should I not 
appear in two minutes, he will smash the glass 
and drag me out. JThe audience sees him 
standing there, realizes that there is danger, and 
so sits breathless until J make my escape, which 
is usually in thirty seconds. 

It is the danger involved that always makes 
crowds gather when, manacled and chained, I 
jump from bridges into rivers or harbours. 
There is always the chance that I jnay not come 
to the surface alive ; and one winter day in 
Pittsburgh I nearly gave the crowd some cause 
for real excitement. 

I had been handcuffed and chained and, as 
usual, put into a trunk that was covered with 
ropes and chains. I was then thrown from the 
bridge into a big hole that had been cut in the 
ice for this* purpose. The police tried to inter- 
fere, but we were too quick for them, and before 
they could do anything I was in the water. 

Now comes the exciting part of the stunt. I 
had no trouble freeing myself, but when I tried 
to rise to the surface I discovered that I had 
passed beyond the hole, and was caught under 
seven inches of ice. 

Well, like most men who face danger, I am a 
fatalist. I have a firm belief in a future life, 
and so I did not worry very much. I did not 
intend to give up life without a struggle, how- 
ever, and so I kept my nose as close to the ice 
as possible in order to get air. Then, recalling 
that I had once read pf a man who got out of a 
similar situation by ^swimming around in an 
ever-increasing circle, I began to circl^ around 
the water, making my circle wider and wider 
each time. 

When I finally found the hole and was dragged 
out I had been under water for more than three 
minutes. I was half frozen from the cold, of 
course, and could not finish out my week at the 
theatre. I didn't mind that, however, because 
I was thankful I had escaped with my life. 

It was in Melbourne, Australia, that the 
weirdest thing that ever happened to me occurred. 
About sixty thousand people watched me sink 
beneath the water in a trunk that day. While 
I was under every- eye was focused on the spot 
where 1 had sunk. After a few moments the 
crowd saw a body float to the top of the water, 
apparently lifeless, and they all thought it 
was mine. My assistants tell me the excitement 
was terrific. A dozen boats darted out to pick 

by t^C 


up the body, arid everyone was shouting, when 
suddenly I calmly appeared a few feet from the 
floating body. 

I have always maintained that the shock the 
crowd got when they saw what they thought 
was my body could not compare with the shock 
/ got when I found myself at the side of that 
dead man. I was so startled that for a«moment 
or two I could not move. I heard the crowd 
yelling like mad, and finally I was pulled into a 
boat by my men. But as long as I live I shall 
not forget that incident. It was the worst thing 
that ever happened to me. . 

My friends have often asked me what kind 
of tricks or escapes I like the best. Well, I 
like them all, of course, or else I shouldn't do 
them. But the ones I get the most fun out of 
are the escapes I make from jails supposed 

Some years ago I was challenged to escape 
from Cell Number Two of the Condemned 
Murderers' Row in the Federal prison at Washing- 
ton. Tliis was the cell in which Guiteau, the 
murderer of President Garfield, had been confined, 
and the officials were willing to wager I would 
not be able to escape from it. 

I accepted the challenge, and had no trouble 
in getting out. Then I thought I would have 
some fun ; and running to all the other cells, I 
broke open the doors and put each prisoner into 
a different cell. As I was stripped (I have to 
be for fear 'the "sceptical might say I have tools 
and instruments concealed on me to help xnc 
escape) the prisoners thought the devil, or 
someone akin to him, was in their presence, and, 
trembling with fear, they obeyed my commands. 
I got my laugh, of course, when the jailers cam*; 
to look after the other prisoners. They thought 
there had been a wholesale escape until I 
confessed to what I had done. 

Once, in England, however, a Scotsman 
played a good trick on me. It was the smartest 
thing oi its sort I ever knew of. In putting me 
into the cell, he said, with a wink, " I dinna think 
yell be getting^ out of this one in a hurry." I 
laughed at him and set to work on the lock ; 
hot at the end of two hours I was no nearer 
freedom than when I had been put into the cell. 
It really looked as though I had met my match 
However, I kept on working until finally 1 
leaned against the door in exhaustion. When 
I did that the door suddenly flew open ! The 
canny Scotsman had never locked it in the first 
place. He reckoned that I should work on the 
basis of a locked door, and he was right. I 
certainly had to laugh at myself that time, for 
if I had tried the door instead of working on 
the lock I could have walked right out in a jiffy. 
Yet you must not think for one moment 
that these things came easy to me ; that I have 
done them because, for instance, I have " double 
joints," as they are called. I have only to look 
at the mirror to see the results of the hard, 
gruelling work I have gone through. The con- 
stant mental and physical strain has turned my 
hair grey, and, at forty-six, I look ten years 
older than I really am. 





HAT took Stephen Forrester to 
the exhibition would be hard 
to say. He had told his friends 
that snow and ice and anything 
higher than a first floor made 
him feel ill, and had then pro- 
ceeded to "lose himself very 
pleasantly among the flesh-pots. 
Well, he had earned his flesh-pots. Y^t here 
he was, at three o'clock on a sunny afternoon, 
paying his entrance fee at the Association Rooms, 
like anybody else, to see Macrae's photographs. 

" The large photographs of Mount Forrester 
are in Room C," said the very efficient young 
person with the swathed hair who gave him 
his change. " Kindly keep to the right." He 
thanked her humbly and clicked through the 
turnstile in the wake of a large woman in 
musquash and carnations, who would probably 
have given much to know him. For Forrester 
was something of a lion that winter. 

He went into Room C, after a guilty glance 
about A and B. But no one was there who 
knew him. No one said, " That's Forrester ! 
Ye3> the fellow with the limp. You'd never 
dream he was fond of that sort of thing, would 
you ? " His first thought was, " Mac did some 
good work ! " Then, with an involuntary catch- 
ing of the breath, he stopped short before the 
great photograph that held the end wall alone. 

And as he did so he knew with sure fore- 
knowiedge % that any time in his life he might 
be brought up with that little thrill ; that while 
he lived a hundred chance scents or colours or 
silences would have power to renew for him 
that air of ineffable space, those sheathed and 
virgin rocks, those upper snows austere against 
the burning blue as the heights of a star ; that 
the impersonal passion of the climber had been, 
was, and for ever would be, the moving force of 
his soul. 

° Mount Forrester from the South-East," the 
catalogue had it. Just that. He was the man 
who had conquered Mount Forrester ; and* he 
was the man' who knew how utterly the great 
height had conquered him. 

He sat down on one of the leather divans 
placed at intervals along the centre of the room, 
staring at the photograph with half-closed eyes. 
The heated air drew cold in his throat ; inside 
his irreproachable gloves the scars of his old 

frost-bites burned and tingled ; he tapped one 
well -shod foot — the lame one — on the floor. 
There in the extreme left-hand corner of the 
picture was the bit of ice that had slid and 
crushed him. That was on the return journey. 
They said he'd never walk again. And Macrae 
had been all in when he took that picture. 
Why, they'd put him in the tent in the middle of 
a snow-flurry ; and the cloud cleared and the 
light was just right ; and they found Mac up 
to his ears in snow half a mile away, clutching 
the camera ; raving, but he'd taken the picture. 

" Excuse me, boss, you done any climbin' ? " 

Forrester came to earth with a start, and 
leaned round the curve of the leather seat-back 
the better to see and answer the man who had 
so suddenly spoken to him. But he was slow 
in answering as the details of the questioner's 
face presented themselves to him round the 
curve of the fat green morocco. For what 
possible interest could such a one have in 
climbing mountains ? A clerk out of work ? 
Scarcely educated enough, judged Forrester. 
A night-watchman ? More likely. Anyway, a 
sub-under-asBistant at whatever he set his hand 
to do. The stamp of the man born to work 
under other men was on # him ; on his respectable 
garments, on his vague face set in greying bristles ; 
one could guess -him treading for ever the same 
obscure rut, running on the same rail, until 
pushed off it by the next-comer into a still 
deeper obscurity. And he was already growing 
old. Forrester, clean from his heights, was 
quick to pity. " One of the Great Unlucky," 
he said to himself, and aloud : " Yes, I've 
climbed a good bit. Are you — interested in it ? " 

The stranger smiled slowly. Then he drew 
out seven coppers and arranged them along his 
dingy palm. There was a certain youthfulness, 
a hovering and unexpected sweetness in the smile, 
which attracted Forrester. "* These here/' he 
said, " 're all I got left o' what Maggie allows me 
fer baccy this week, after payin' me admission." 
He returned the coins to his pocket and resumed 
his slow contemplation of the picture. 

For a moment Forrester was in doubt. But 
the shabby-respectable man was oblivious t>f 
him, his whole attention absorbed in the picture. 
And it was Forrester who renewed the conversa-* 
tion on some impulse of sympathy, saying : 
" Where have you done your climbing ? " 




" Me ? Oh, anywheres north o* Thunder 
Valley, for the most part* You got to dimb 
there to get about, Don't see no sense in doin' it 
fer fun/ J He turned his eyes again to the photo- 
graph, and once more that shy, tmLf-lxvyish 

smile transfigured his comnionplajce lace- ** But 
you thinks different when yer young, eh, 
mister ? Where you d«"e your climbin*, if I 
may arsk ? " 

Forrester nodded towards the wall. u There- 
abouts mostly/' he said, pleasantly, - ' '* My 
name's Forrester— Stephen Forrester, at your 
service," * 

The stranger turned completely round ; his 
face rose over the back of the divan like a queer 
mild moon. ' You Forrester ? JJ he said, with 
interest, " Well, now ! You the feller that 
climbed that mountain an 1 had it named fer 
him ? >r 

1 Yes," smiled Forrester, conscious of an 
excusable glow. 

" My t " said the unknown, softly; " my I 
If that don't beat all 1 " He looked at Forrester 
carefully, as if making a friendly inventory of 
him. He rubbed his hands gently together, 
" Maggie '11 foe that amused to hear tell I seen 
you 1 " he said, shyly. 

Well, amused was not just the word that 
Forrester had expected ! But the other man 
tame sliding along the leather seat, all alight 
with interest. He put out his hand, so palpably 
the hand of a failure, and touched Forrester's 
sleeve* " Mister/' he begged, simply, " tell me 
all about it, so's 1 can tell Maggie 1 " 

The appeal hit Forrester in his softest plate. 
He was touched. Who was Maggie ? He 
visioned her as beautiful, and dreaming of her 
native Hills ; in a mental flash he saw. himself 
telling a moving story to a dozen well-appointed 





dinner-tables. He said kindly, " Tell me what 
you want to know. But first — who's Maggie ? 
Where is she ? " 

41 My ole girl, mister. She's washin' dishes 
at Henniker's till I get a job." He went on 
with a touch of pride : " She don't have to work 
when I'm doin' anything, boss." 

Again Forrester was moved ; he guessed that 
Maggie washed dishes quite a lot at Hermiker's, 
and did it cheerily. Maggie's husband went on 
with a shy eagerness, jerking his thumb at the 
wall : " Did you have to cross Somahl'to 
glacier, mister ? " 

" Yes." Forrester was conscious of an in- 
creasing astonishment, for the glacier was not 
shown in the photograph, and is not named on 
any map. " We climbed that long ridge to the 
east — the photograph does not snow much of 
it — and worked along till we came to the little 
plateau. And there we made our last camp. 
Wo went up next day. We wanted to do it 
in a day, so as not to* spend a night at that 

" I know." The face of Maggie's husband 
showed keener, harder ; he was touched with 
some quiet amusement that puzzled Forrester. 
" You went up roped, boss ? " 

" As far as that big fissure." Forrester was 
kindling, as a lyric poet might kindle at the 
talk of love. He pointed, with his cane. " We 
cast them off then. They were too great a 
weight. We kept* them as dry as we could, but 
there 'was a continual poudre, and they were 
frozen as stiff as stfeel rods, crackling as we 
moved. It sounded so loud, that crackle " 

" The papers say you was the only one that 
made the peak, mister — the only one that made 
good " 

" It wasn't their fault," said Forrester, quickly. 
" They were fine stuff — white men. I tell you 
they gave up their chances so that I should have 
mine. Yes. They helped me all through- — 
spent their strength for me. So that in the end 
they'd none left, and I went on alone — on their 
strength. A man said to me last week, * You 
hired them, didn't you ? ' ' What difference 
does that make,' I said, 'when they gave me 
what money couldn't byy ? ' " 

Forrester's eyes went to the picture ; he was 
abruptly silent. Then : " They gave me that," 
he breathed. 

After a minute he went on quietly, talking 
more to himself than to " the man beside 
him : — 

" I left Mason and Pieters on the last tiny 
level with the tent over them. Mason was 
finished. Pieters could have come with me, but 
daren't leave Mason, who was in a state of 
collapse, and blue. Pieters never stopped rubbing 
him, he told me, for an hour. I went on alone, 
up a slope of hard old snow, steep but easy 
enough — that slope I— and in five minutes it 
was a^Jf I had been alone for centuries, from the 
beginning of the world I I drew myself up on a 
ledge and looked down. Mason and Pieters were 
little black figures beneath. Pieters lifted a 
hand to me. Then I went on over that hummock 
— there — and they were gone. It seemed to be 

Vol !viL— Z ^ 

all right — all right, I mean, that I should be 
alone at the end, alone with my mountain. 

" The hardest part of the climbing was over. 
There remained only that great soaring wedge 
of immortal snow that heaved above me into 
the blue. I had only to climb — to keep on 
working upward as long as my strength held. 
I knew it would not fail. My arms, outstretched 
against the face of the s^eep and looking as weak 
as a fly's legs, were yet long enough and strong 
enough to clasp the whole of that magnificent 
summit, and leave their mark upon it, and 
conquer it. What a thing humanity is ! Oh, 
I'm talking nonsense, if you like, but I was a 
little mad at the time. If you've climbed, you 
know how it is." * 

^ut Forrester saw at the same moment that 
his listener didn't know how it was, for all he 
was smiling indulgently. " I been mad in my 
time, bass," he said, alrnost with a wink. **' I 
ain't the head for such things now.''* 

Forrester laughed a little. " It took some 
head." he confessed, nodding at the photograph. 
" After I worked round that curve there I had 
nothing under me but a drop — a drop clear to 
the forest line. I'd loose a handful of snow 
from somewhere, and it'd go glittering off into 
the emptiness behind me like frozen smoke, and 
I'd stick close for* a minute to see if any more 
was coming. Then I'd watch those bits of snow- 
dust fall and fall and fall — miles and miles they 
seemed to fall, right to the black furriness that 
was the forest of the lower slopes. They came 
near to shaking me. And now and then I seemed 
to have nothing at all under hands or feet— to 
be just afloat in dizzy space. Then I'd look up, 
and the whole weight of the summit 'd rush back 
at me — hang over me till I seemed to be under- 
neath it, and crushed flat. And then I'd kind 
of come back to myself and know what I was 
doing. And I tell you I wouldn't have swapped 
places with a millionaire ! It's at times like 
that a man feels his soul alive in him, and knows 
he can't fail, whatever seems to happen. They 
say that normally we only use about one-tenth 
of our power of living. It takes the divine 
moment to teach us what we are when we use 
all ten-tenths. What we are ! " 

Forrester was frankly smiling at himself now, 
frankly talking to himself. Maggie's husband 
was listening in respectful bewilderment, yet 
with something held in reserve ; he sat with his 
elbows on his knees and his hands dangling 
forward. Forrester wished he wouldn't, some- 
how — those hands looked so inept, so apologetic. 
He went on abruptly :— 

" I was corkscrewing upwards, if you see 
what I mean. I calculated to reach the top 
on the side opposite to where I'd left my two 
men, as we'd seen that the overhang was less 
there. But on that side the wind was worst ; 
it was not strong — just a steady swim of cold 
air fit to freeze the breath inside you. It made 
me clumsy. 

" I was working up very safely and steadily, 
finding everything much easier than I expected, 
which is often the way. ' I was cutting steps in 
kind, solid snow. Nothing could happen to me 




as long as I kept on catting steps. I was as 
safe as houses, for all the next stopping-place 
was two thousand feet under. And 1 was just 
thinking so when the thong with which' my 
ice-axe was looped round my wrist caught against 
a snag that thrust through the snow-crust and 
snapped. I shifted my grip on the shaft for 
greater security, and the n$xt instant the thing 
was out 'of my hand and glissading down' the 

" Well, it was awkward enough, but not 
fatal. I went on without it, though slower, 
making ditours round hummocks I'd have cut 
into, and. scooping holds with the big knife I 
had on a lanyard round my neck. I went on 
so for maybe another hour, not thinking of the 
top, pinning my mind to every inch of the 

" And then — all in a moment, as it seemed — 
I looked up. And there was the summit not 
two hundred feet above me, and easy all the 

" Well, I hung on with toes and fingers and 
tried to cheer, but I couldn't get it out. Change 
places with a millionaire I I wouldnJk have 
swapped with any king of the earth ! And then 
I looked more ciosely at what lay in front of 
me. And the— the cheer went out of me like 
a flame out of a candle. 

" Immediately over me, and for as far round 
as I could see, the mountain-top was girdled 
with a band of rock, a sheer face, too sheer to 
hold the snow. It was all veined with ice, pitted 
and porous with the weather since the world 
began. Soft stuff, crumbling under frost and 
sun. Yes, there was just about twenty feet of 
it. After that a smooth m6und of snow to the 
very crest. And I lay with my chin in a drift 
at the foot of it and cried like a baby. For I 
knew that no power on earth could get me up 
that little twenty-foot wail of rock without an 
axe to chip holds with. 

" I worked up to it and stood against it. 
There was a ledge that heM me comfortably. 
I stood on it and drove in the knife as far as 
I could reach, above my head, tossed my line 
round it, and pulled. It came away in a tinkle 
of tiny ice-chips and rotten rock. I stared below 
me at the drifting wulli-was and the forests 
under them. I wondered how long" it would 
take me to get down — without having reached 
the top. I looked to my right, just to make 
certain of what I was deadly sure of already — 
that there wasn't any possible way up for a 
single climber farther along the ledge. And 
there, as sure as I'm a living man, were little 
steps cut roughly in the rock, choked with ice, 
but recognizable, serviceable. 

" When I told our president that." said 
Forrester, after a silence, " he told me I'd been 
light-headed from exposure." 

He gazed at the picture a moment, a smile 
on his fine, vivid face. His eyes looked into a 
great distance ; and the eyes of the man beside 
him rested on him : kindly, uncomprchendingly : 
a little wistfully, as if he were trying to follow 
Forrester into that shining distance. 

" I knew," Forrester was speaking to his 

Digitized by dOOglC 

own soul, he had forgotten his surroundings. 
" I knew," he repeated, softly. " I met him 
there. I felt him there — my nameless fore- 
runner. There was a high spirit near me in 
the very wind. I touched hands with an un- 
known comrade, a iriend who'd climbed higher, 
leaving his glory to me like a coat for which 
he'd no more use. How high he must have 
climbed I To the very stars I 

" The steps were very much weathered. They 
looked very old. They were filled, ;as I said, 
with old ice, which I chipped out with the hook 
on my knife. I went up hand over hand. 

"The rest was easy. I won't trouble you 
with it. I stood on the summit at last, and left 
the tiny flag there that I'd carried up. He — 
my forerunner — seemed to be waiting for me 
there ; I fancied that he gave me a generous 
smile. I knew he didn't 'grudge me anything. 
It sounds rubbish here, eh ? But there I smiled 
back at hixri — the man in whose steps I'd climbed 
to the best thing life's, given me yet — and I 
drank his health in the last of my brandy. Then 
I came down." 

The pleasant, vigorous voice died to silence. 
Both men, so contrasted, sat silent awhile, 
looking at the picture, which even in the electric 
light seemed to glow and recede into some splendid 
atmosphere of its own. 

At last Forrester turned* a little shamefaced ; 
he felt that in talking so to a man who couldn't 
possibly understand he'd gQfxe very near to 
making a fool of himself and his mountain. 
There was honest pity in his heart for any man 
who knew nothing of such austere triumphs as 
he enjoyed ; perhaps there was a shade of con- 
tempt, too, as he said, hastily : " See here, I've 
— made you listen to a lot of stuff, eh ? But 
you must let me pay for this, you know. Just 
the price of admission — between two men who 
have something in common." 

He broke off. For he was not heard. The 
shabby man was gazing at the photograph. 
And as he gazed he chuckled quietly and rubbed 
his faded knees. " If you'd looked, mister." he 
said, " if you'd looked, maybe you'd have found 
the bits of an ole lantern, up there where you 
left the flag t " 

Perfectly motionless, Forrester waited. 

The shabby man turned to him genially. 
" Such fools as we are when we're young ! " he 
said. " How it all comes back I " He smiled 
upon the younger man again with that bright, 
gentle look which gave him the momentary 
aspect of youth ; it was like a light reflected from 
some mountain-peak of the soul. He went on : 
" Maggie '11 be that int 'rested when she hears 
someone has set right alongside me, tallria' — 
excuse me, boss — like man to man — someone 
that's been up that there mountain I " 

Still Forrester waited, dry-mouthed. 

" You see, mister, me and Maggie we always 
counted that there old mountain as ours, like, 
seein' as I was the only feller'd ever been up it 
in them days. And a fine fool I was ! Many 's 
the time Maggie's said to me, * I wonder I took 
you. Si,' she said, * secin' you showed me what 
kind of a fool you was when you was courtinV 

■-■i i '_i i n >.i i 1 1 ■_■ 1 1 




Maggie's a great one for a joke. * Or maybe/ 
she ses, ' I took you just because you was such 
4, fool that Christmas* There's no accountin' for 
*i woman's taste/ she ses." 

'I hat reflection of a far light rosed his colourless 
face as he turned again to 
Forrester ; it lit a pleasant 
blue star in his homely eyes ; 
he laughed consciously, and 
glanced down at Ms patched 

" We wasn't married then/' 
he explained* coniidentialiy, 
1 Vlt's a long time ago, Seems 
queer that there ever was a 
time when Maggie and me 
wasn't married, but there 
was," He wrinkled his brow 
with a ruminative air. ir But 
there wasn't never, at no 
time, any other girl than 
Maggie DeUuie fer me/ He 
looked gentJy at Forrester. 
" You should 'a* seen her 
then/' he said ; "she was tho 
purtiest girl in Cascapedia, 
my Maggie was I 

" There was a lot of fellers 
alter her, She could V done 
lots better — but she stuck to 
me. Seems like 1 didn't have 
much luck; even then, J 

dunno why ; 1 was always willm' to work. It 
just happens that way, mister. Times I said 
to her, ' You'd best quit me, honey, an 1 take 
up with a luckier man/ I said that, not knowin* 
just what I'd do if she done it. But she— she 



» -v 




just put her hands 
on niy shoulders" 
— h c glanced 
chilly, wonder- 
ing! y h at his 
shabby c o a t— 
** she just put her 
hands there an* 
she ses, * Good 
luck or bad, 1 11 
never t:<> back on 
you, Si.' *' His 
slow eyes went 
back to For- 
rester's face* 
" You know how 
it is with them, 
with the good 
ones, boss when 
they're— fond of 
a feller ? " 

* - No, "said For* 
rester, after a 
short silence, and 
v e r y h umbl y, 
"no, I don't know 
- yet. Go on, 
please. Tell me 
the rest." 

" We was to 
h 11 v e bee n n 1 a fried 
t hat Christmas. 
But I didn't have 
no luck. I didn't have enough saved. It near 
broke my heart, I hadn't got so kinder used 
to waltin' on things then, and I was just set 
on go-in' to Casta, pedia an' claimin* my girl 
that Christmas. She was workin' in a store 
there, an' I was on a lumberin* job back in 
the Qucouagan, T was n't so far asunders. but 
the hills nz up to heaven in betwixt us. I 

by LiOOglC 

hadn't seen her in a long whiles, mister. An* 
when the time come on, an - I'd no luck, an* 
had been sick, an' dassent to quit my job, I 
tramped them hills aLl one night, buss, tryin' to 
find the nerve to write Maggie an J say, ■ We 
can't be married this Christmas after all, honey ; 
we'll have to wait fer the spring/ ** 

He bent down and plucked a thread carefully 
from his frayed trousers, Kaising his head, he 
stared again at the picture. " I wrote it at 
lost," he went on in his heavy way, *' an* I sent 
it to her, I was down an" out. 1 — kinder lost 
me self-rcspeck, boss, havin' to write that way 
to Maggie when she could V done so much - better 
— as high as a mine's doctor i Yes, sir. An* 
then her answer come. She wasn't a very good 
writer, She just said I wasn't to worry, she 
guessed she could get along without nae till 
spring— always one fer a joke, was Maggie I — 
but 1 was to think of her on Christmas/' 

The shabby man's voice trailed off Into 
silence* After a moment he said, thoughtfully* 
" Queer how they — the good onesr— can break a 
feller all up an' put him on }m feet at the same 
time, ain't it, boss ? " 

" J — don't know/' said Forrester, softly, " Go 
on, please." 

" She said I was to think of her at Christmas 
Some; thin' you said a while back put me in 
mind of how I felt then. Think of her \ Why, 
I — 1 felt as though I could chop the mountains 
down same as if they was trees to get to her I 
I felt there was nothin" — just nothin' — I couldn't 
do, .or bear, or get. so^as Maggie didn't quit me. 
I felt Fd get her them great shiny stars fer 
buttons to her Sunday dress if she was want in' 
them, Made me feel twelve foot high an' drunk, 
she did, just with three lines o 1 bad spellin' an* 
a joke I Fd five dollars in me pocket, an* I 
went an* looked up a Siwash, one o' them moun- 
tain Injuns that looks like a Chinaman and 




moves up or down like a goat. I'd done him a 
kindness a while back, an* he was grateful ; 
which is more'n white fellers always is. I said, 
would he take a letter to my klootch m Cascapedia 
for five dollars, she to" get it on Christmas ? Yes, 
he said, he would. I give him the letter an' 
the bill, an' off he Went ; not that she was 
rightly my klootch then, o' course, an' she'd 'a* . 
been terrible, vexed if she'd known I called her 
so ; but it was near enough for him. 

" We wasn't so far apart, as I ses ; not so 
many miles on the level ; only not a yard of it 
was level ; ,the hills was like a wall between us ; 
but there was one thing we could both see, one 
tiling that was in sight from Cascapedia an' 
from the Oucouagan on the other side. An' 
that was that mountain there." 

He looked at the picture with lingering sur- 
prise. " My ! " he said. " You wouldn't never 
think I'd been up there, would you ?, You'd 
think I was too old and had too much sense- 
But I was young ^then ; and, some way, Maggie'd 
made me just clean crazy." 

He flushed -and gave Forrester a shy, friendly 
smile. " Two nights," he said, laughing a little, 
" two nights I sat up, fixin' a lantern to suit me 
— ftxin' it so's no draught could get in, puttm' 
in extry wicks an' more oil an' the dear knows 
what-all ! I'd said to Maggie in my letter, I'd_ 
'said, * You borrer a pair o' glasses if it ain't 
clear/ I ses, ' an' you look at the to\> o' the 
biggest mountain you see in betwixt us on 
Christmas night, an' you'll see if I'm thinkin' 
of you or not, Maggie Delane. 1 That's what 
I ses. 

" When the lantern was fixed, 1 packed it on 
rae back keerful, an' I borrered an ice-axe an' a 
pair o' creepers, an' I climbed that there mountaiif 
an' left the lighted lantern on the top." 

Forrester stared at him. Did he know what 
he was saying — what, in that brief day of glory 
given him by a girl's trust, he had done ? No, 
he had no inkling of it ; no shadow of a suspicion 
crossed his simple mind that he had achieved a 
feat which no man had been able to repeat for' 
thirty years. He was smiling pleasantly, in- 
dulgently, at the follies of his youth. And 
Forrester said, not knowing he spoke aloud, 
" It's better it should be like that. JtV more 
beautiful so." 

" Did you speak, mister ? " 

" No — nothing. Please go on." 

But the charm was broken, the reflection of 
that far light was fading from the ageing face 
as Forrester had seen the reflected glory of his 
peak fading from the lowlands. The shabby 
man's shyness was increasing, he looked at 
Forrester uneasily. " I dunno what made me 
talk so much," he mumbled, apologetically. 

" seein' that picture an* all. I ain't generally 
one to talk much." 

" Good heavens, man ! " cried Forrester, 
" don't you know you've just been telling me 
the loveliest thing J ever heard ? " He checked 
himself abruptly at the look in his companion's 
face. " Tell me how you got up," he went on, 
more quietly. 

But the present had again usurped the splendid 
past. " I don't righjly remember now," said 
the shabby man, uncertainly. " My mind was 
that full o' Maggie, anyways. I crossed the 
glacier below where you did, an' then I — then 
I — I. guess I just went up, boss." 

" Just so," Agreed Forrester, " you just went 
up. And the lantern wasn't hurt, and Maggie 
saw the light from Cascapedia ? " 

" She saw it, boss. It burned till the oil give 
out. 'Twasn't hurt a mite." 
• Forrester looked again at the photograph. 
He visioned his great peak,^ a shadow against 
the great winter stars, crowned with a tiniest 
point of light ; a weak star that invader! those 
awful solitudes, those dominions of wind and 
cloud, dawn and darkness, to tell a girl in a 
store that her man hadn't forgotten her ! He 
roused from hi9 vision to see Maggie's husband 
on his feet, to hear him mumbling good-byes. 

".She'll be terrible amused to hear I seen 
you," he heard. " I shall take it as a favour, 
boss*, if you'd not mention it to no one — do a 
steady man no good — think I was drunk." 
Forrester got up and shook hands, which seemed 
to abash the shabby man very much. 
. " It's better that way, too," he said, abruptly, 
" though you won't have the least idea what I 
mean. Here's my card. If I can ever have 
the honour of doing anything for you or Maggie, 
let me know." 

The shabby man was gone. An official in 
blue and silver buttons was staring suspiciously 
at Forrester. He scowled at the official and 
went and stood in front of the great photograph. 
He stood there so long that the official got tired 
of watching him and went away. The room 
was empty. Forrester looked around ; then he 
took' out his fountain-pen. 

He looked again at the picture of the peak. 
" Not mine," he said, under his breath, and 
humbly — " not mine. You fell to a greater 
weapon than I had to use against you 1 " There 
was a large ticket attached to the frame, bearing, 
that legend, " Mount Forrester from the South- 
East. " He crossed out the word " Forrester " 
and above the erasure, in neat black letters, he 
inserted the words " Maggie Delane." Then 
he, too, went away. 

Every paper next morning devoted a paragraph 
to the meaningless little incident. 

by Google 

Original from s 



Marshal Foch s Home Life Told in Pictures* 

Marsha! Foch's birthplace in the Rue Saint* Louis, at Tarbes. It is an eight* 
roomed house, with the nursery windows looking out upon the tittle court, as 
may be seen in the illustration, The house belonged to his father, who was at 
that time Secretary- General of the Prefecture des Hautes Pyrenees. It is now 
marked with a commemorative tablet, 

lized by LjOOQI 

Ferdinand Foch at 
the age of twelve, 
He was the third 
of Four children, the 
eldest, Eugenie, 
being the only 
daughter. The 
second, Gabriel is 
srilL a solicitor at 
Tarbes, while the 
youngest, Germain, 
entered the Church, 
Their fat her* s name 
was Napoleon Foch, 
and the children 
were known In the 
neighbourhood as 
"the little Napo- 




The lycee, or col- 
lege, at Tarbes, 
where Ferdinand 
and his brother 
Gabriel were edu' 
cated in 1861 and 
I &62* Beside the 
ancient doorway is 
a curious inscrip- 
tion in Latin to 
the following 
effect: " May 
this building stand 
fast until an am 
has drunk the sea 
dry and a tortoise 
has walked round 
the world/' Fer^ 
dinand was a 
bright scholar and 
took many prizes 
while ar school 

This photograph was taken when Ferdinand Foch was 
about twenty 'eight and a captain of Artillery at Rennes. 
After leaving school he continued his military studies at 
Metz, from which he commenced his career as a soldier 
with the rant of lieutenant in 1874. He had the reputation 
of being a fine rider and fencer* 

a line rider and rencc; 

Ai the age of fifty. General Foch, 
as he was at that time, held the 
post of Professor of Tactics in the 
School of War, of which, in 1908, 
he became Commandant, His 
teaching has been reproduced in 
his book. "The Principles of 
War/' which has been the work 
that had most to do with the 
forming of the spirit of the French 
f ron -pfficers. 





Marshal FocIVs house on his 
estate at Traoufeunteuniou, 
near Nlorlaix, which he bought 
*at the time of his marriage 
with Mile. Julie Bienvenue in 
I S/3. As may be seen in the 
illustration, it is a very fine 
old building. It possesses 
a. chapel of its own, and 
is approached by a long 
avenue, entered by great 
pillared gates of old wrought 
iron. Up till the outbreak of 
war the Marshal spent much 
of his spare time on his domain 
if his favourite hobby of 
planting trees and landscape 
gardening on a large scale. 


Marshal Foch at the present 
day. Here is a f a :e in 
which a reader of character 
would fjnd visible 
&\\ ihe qualities of 
genius and insight 
which have made 
lt^ owner deserve, 
emphatically, the 
title of "The 
Great Victor." / 

by Google 

Phut*. JltnrJ ManuH,. 

Original from 


Illustrated by Thomas Henry. 

j]HE double wedding was described 
later, by an enthusiastic young 
journalist newly from school, as 
a joyous and festive occasion. 
To tell the truth, more tears 
were shed at the breakfast in 
the Rowlands' house at Van- 
brugh Park than Blackheath 
was accustomed to witness when an undertaker 

" We," said Mr. Rowland, borrowing his wife's 
handkerchief, as he made his speech, " have 

always been " Here he turned to hide 

agitation. " Have always been such a " He 

choked in the effort to utter the words. A 
second brave attempt met with greater success. 
" Such a united family I " 

Mrs. Rowland was conveyed from the room 
by three strong maids ; each bride rested a head 
on the shoulder of her husband and sobbed. 
The two unmarried girls of the family toyed 
pensively with the bunches of grapes, and their 
brother Cyril tried to hum in order to convey 
an impression of composure. Guests looked on 
sympathetically. As for the bridegrooms, a 
greater air of comfort has been shown by men 
in the dock at the Old Bailey. One of them, at 
the suggestion of an aunt who was directing the 
proceedings, rose to make a speech. This was 
Hippisley. A good amateur actor, and, more- 
over, an official in the Home Office, it seemed 
likely that Hippisley would be able to give a 
brighter tone to the proceedings. 

" On behalf of my friend Grey and myself," 
he said, " I have to thank you for the kindness 
you intended to show in accepting the toast 
which you have omitted to drink." No one 
smiled, and Hippisley seemed nettled. " So far 
as I can gather, the view taken here is that 
Grey and I have forced our way into this baronial 
dwelling, and that, by force and violence, we 
are carrying off two unwilling maidens to the 
mountain fastnesses. As a matter of fact, I 
am taking my dear wife to live at Eltham ; 
Grey and Mrs. Grey are to reside at Chislehurst. 
Neither of these districts can be termed remote. 
You have described your family, Mr. Rowland, 
as a united family. I hope, with all my heart, 
that the members o^the family will continue on 
the friendliest terms with each other." Hippisley 
sat down, and the general view was that he had 
comported himself fairly well in trying circum- 

The reception at Eltham, a month later, was 
attended by the full strength of the Rowland 

family. They came early ; they stayed late. 
Mrs. Hippisley s mother arrived in time for 
lunch ; she received Hippisley when his train 
brought him from Charing Cross with the manner 
of a well-bred hostess called upon to entertain 
an unexpected guest. Mr. Rowland brought the^ 
other ladies of the family in his car, and requested 
Hippisley to select a special place for the motor- 
coat and cap. " I shall be in and out a good 
deal," he said, confidentially, " and I like to 
know where to find everything when I want it. 
Don't let anyone else use that hat-peg ! " The 
members of the Rowland family were taken over 
the house, and when they approved of any 
detail they said : — 

*' Ah, Ethel, dearest, this is where your good 
taste comes in ! " 

And if they found objection, they said to 
Hippisley, in regretful tones : — ' 

44 Charles, it was a pity that you interfered." 

Thus it happened that when the visitors, began 
to drive up and to walk in there was a Rowland 
handy to talk about the house and to comment 
on its attractions and its faults. Hippisley and 
Grey, finding themselves ignored, went out to 
have a game of singles on the tennis lawn and 
to discuss the topic of tl\e day — namely, How 
to deal with one's wife's relatives. To them, as 
the game was in the interesting state of five all, 
came young Cyril Rowland, costumed and 
equipped for lawn tennis, and bringing with him 
three male friends, 

" I persuaded these chaps to come along, 
old bird," he explained to Hippisley, " just to 
see what your turf was like. I'm not much 
good at tea-parties, or I should have been here 
before. By the by, you ought to be in the 
house, you know, looking after your visitors. 
When you're there, send out lemon-squash and 
cigarettes: Turkish, mind ; not Virginians. 
And some matches." 

Hippisley and Grey — as no one at the reception 
favoured them with marked attentions — drifted 
to the billiard -room. One of the unmarried 
Rowland girls brought a selection of her dearest 
and best girl-friends to play snooker. Miss 
Rowland suggested that her brothers-in-law 
should take scissors and a basket and cut for 
her some roses. 

The flowers, the time being autumn, had lost 
much of v their freshness ere the girl was ready 
to leave. The family stayed for dinner, and 
when at ten o'clock they prepared to go, Mrs. 
Rowland consulted her husband apart, and 
then announced graciously that one of the girls 

by \jC 

'-1 1 1 I M I I I '.' I 1 1 




would be allowed to stay on at Eltham for the 
week-end. The choice fell upon the lover of 
roses, and the other sister was told that her 
lum would come in seven days' time. Hipp is ley, 
alone in the spare room p took out his nrafc-up 
box that h^S served him in amateur-acting days, 
and half an hour later he, with a crape mask 
and all the appearance of one engaged in the 
profession of burglary, gazed through the window 
of the room occupied by his wife and her sister* 
The ladies screamed, and Hippisley went back 
with the content of a man who has perfoYmed a 
somewhat desperate but highly necessary action. 
At breakfast the next morning he waited for 
an instruction to skip church and take Miss 
Rowland home to the safety of Blaekheath, 

** I shall remain here for a week/' the young 
woman announced, ** and look after darling 
Ethel, At the end of that period my sister will 
take my place- li would be too terrible if this 
burglar came here again and alarmed dear 

M But I am quite able to look after my wife/' 
he protested - H 

" Charles/' said Miss Rowland, pathetically, 
" you don't seem to resize what a united family 
we are/' 

Grey, after lunch-lime on a Friday in White- 
hall, was chaffing Hippisley on his remarkable 
good fortune in having a Rowland ever about 
the house ; the visits had now continued for six 
weeks, and at the moment Mrs, Rowland was 
staying at Eltham, Grey had no sooner finished 



by Google 

speaking than— so swift is retribution in this 
life— he was summoned to take a message at the 
telephone. His wife announced joyously that, 
in answer to her complaint of favouritism being 
shown to Eltham, her sister and her brother were 
coming to Chislehurst by the four-tifty-nve, for 
a visit extending from that afternoon until 
Tuesday morning. Each was bringing a friend, 
and Mrs. Grey recited a list of provisions to be 
brought down. Hjppislcy expressed sympathy ; 
Grey declared he, for one, was going to stand 
no nonsense. 

On the Tuesday morning Grey was ready, 
before leaving for town, to speak plainly to 
young Cyril, and to warn him that he was not 
to come again to Chislchurst until he received a 
formal invitation ; a start thus made in candour, 
it seemed to Grey that the process could be 
extended with deliberation to other members 
of the Rowland family. Two brace of grouse 
had arrived that morning, the gift of an old 
friend, and Grey noticed that, although he had 
handed the birds to cook, with precise instruc- 
tions, they were now on the hall table. He put 
a question to his wife. 

" Dearest Cyril/' she explained, " is So fond 
of them. They mean much more to him than, 
they will to us. And whilst I think of it, Cyril 
is going to borrow your motor-bike for a 

fi Would he eare/' asked Grey, sarcastically, 
"'to have the boots I am wearing at the present 
moment ? " 

"Fll ask/ ' said his wife 
She return**! with the in- 
formation that Cyril, who 
had now left with the 
grouse. i>ossessed enough 
pairs of boots for Ins own 
needs at the moment; he 
promised to bear Grey's 
offer in mind. 

11 Come home early/' 
she begged. i4 'l shall be 
so lonely when they have 
gone, People scarcely un- 
derstand what a united 
family we are/* 

" I shall come home 
raxly/ 'declared Grey .with vehemence, 
"for the purpose of having a good ding- 
dong heart-to-heart talk with you/' 

Darling," said his wife, kissing 
him p r| I sometimes think I love yon 
better tftan anyone else in the world. 
Excepting/' she added, " excepting, 
of course, my own people/' 

1 In: two men conferred again that 
day in Whitehall* Grey admitted it 
was easy enough to threaten to deliver 
an address to one's wife, and suffix 
cieatly difficult to find words that 
would impress without giving pain- 
Uippis!i?y had not been free during 
the week-end ; Mr- and Mrs- Rowland 
and the other unmarried girl had 
visited Eltham. Hippislcy, during the 
Sunday, hit upon an ingenious idea. 





Taking Mr, RowIawL aside, he mentioned that 
he was in urgent^ant of fifty pounds ; the 
loan would be paid back in monthly in- 
stalments, Mr. Rowland agreed to consider the 

"Oh, good egg I " cried Grey, admiringly. 
" Of course* you don't need the money any more 
than 1 do, but if we begin to touch the old boy 
for a loan every time he comes to us, his visits 
arc bound to diminish* Hippisley, T congratulate 

fi It was/' admitted the other, ** in the nature 
of a brain wave/* 

4i This saves me the necessity of having a row 
with the wife. Run across to Chislehurst this 
evening/' suggested Grey, " and tell me if any 
developments have occurred.* 1 

Hippisley received a note from oler Rowland 
that caused him — he did not disguise the fact.— 
to feel thoroughly ashamed of himself. His 
father-in-law wrote a kind and most tactful 
letter, enclosing a cheque for the sum mentioned. 
He regretted that Hippisley was short of money, 
and the sum was to be considered not as a Joan, 
but as a gift ; when more happened to be re- 
quired, Hippisley had but to drop a hint. The 
two men walked outside the house at Chislehurst, 
ruminating over the question. Indoors, Mrs* 
Kowlaud and one unmarried daughter, together 

Digitized by G* 

with Mrs, Grey* were singing an unaccompanied 
glee with great heartiness. 

11 I shall send back Ms cheque ," mentioned 
Hippisley, "and tell him I was labouring under 
a misapprehension. And now its for you, my 
good Grey, to think of something." 
" Of equal merit ? " 

"Of superior merit," said Hippisley. " Jf 
that is possible." 

M Have you considered the question of 
separating from your wife ? Jl 

1 have considered," retorted the E It ham 
man, " the question of you leaving your wife, 
but I have not yet approached the question of 
me leaving mine." 

" All our troubles." remarked Grey, as the 

pinging reached the point of concerted enthusiasm, 

1( all our troubles arise from the circumstance 

that we have to deal with a united 

family. Why haven't we been endowed 

with a united family ? " 

H I am an orphan, with no brothers 
or sisteis," 

" I. too/' said Grey, " have no close 

" Grey," cried Hippisicy. suddenly 
gripping his companion's arm, " what 
about cousins, home after many years 
< i absence, from the Colonies ? J * 

It might have appeared singular that 
both Hippisley and Grey were able to 
announce, at about the same time, the 
arrival of, in each case, four relations ; 
their respective wives were too much 
delighted at the thought of enter- 
taining to regard the incident with 
suspicion. The entire strength of 
the Rowland family came to the 
first evening at Eltharm The Hippisley rela- 
tives were, it seemed, all male, and there was 
nothing extraordinary in this. A detail that 
might be counted strange, however, was that 
the four came out of the Home Office, walked to 
Charing Crass, and were met by Hippisley (who 
carried his make-up box under his overcoat) at 
Eltham, where the station-master lent the use 
of a waiting-room. Before entering the house, 
the guests, who showed considerable hilarity 
of manner, enjoyed the sport of leapfrog in the 
carriage drive, and they picked Mis* Hippisley 's 
favourite dahlias. It is enough to say that 
their behaviour during the whole of the evening 
was on this level. 

" Dearie boy." said Mrs. Grey, agitatedly, to 
her husband, on the way home, M I hope your 
relatives are of a diSerent type." 

" Yes/* lie replied. " Quite different. Much 
breezier in manner,. More of the hail -fellow* 
well-met about them." 

"In that case," she remarked, with a shiver, 
" I think we ought to make a sort of a bargain. 
I've been talking the matter over with my sister 
at Eltham, and this is what we suggest* Rela- 
tives to he invited on Sundays only, and, perhaps. 
Good Friday and Christmas Day, And by joint 

" Done I '* agreed her husband, promptly. 
Original from * y y 



Kwt PW— November 20tk-29tlu 1917. 


"7%? ./IS/or/ Dramatic Battle in the TVar" 



Attack of Haldane's Sixth Corps— The Tank Attack— The Main Attack— 

The Second Day of Battle— The Situation— The New Advance — The Fight 

of Bourlon Wood— The Final British Effort. 

E shall now descend the line to 
the section which extends from 
Bullecourt in _ the aorth to 
Villers-Ghislain in the south, 
opposite to the important town 
of Cambrai, at the Hindenburg 
line. It was here that the Field- 
Marshal had determined to strike 
his surprise blow, an enterprise which he has 
described in so lucid and detailed a despatch 
that the weary chronicler has the rare experience 
of finding history adequately recorded by the 
same brain which planned, it. The plan was- a 
very daring one, for the spot attacked was barred 
by the full unbroken strength of the Hindenburg 
main and support lines, a work so huge and solid 
that it seems to take as back from these superficial- 
days to the era of the Cyclopean builder, or the 
founder of the great monuments of antiquity. 
These enormous excavations of prodigious length, 
depth, and finish are object lessons, both of the 
strength of theGermans.the skill of their engineers, 
and the ruthlessness with which they exploited the 
slave and captive labour with which so much of 
it was built. Besides this terrific barricade, 
there was the further difficulty that the whole 
method of attack was experimental, and that to 
advance without artillery fire against such a 
position would appear to be a most desperate 
venture. On the other hand, it was known that 
the German line was thin, and that their man- 
power had been attracted northwards by the 
long epic of the Passchendaele attack. There 
was a well-founded belief that the Tanks would 
prove equal to the task of breaking the front, 
<tud sufficient infantry had been assembled to 
lake advantage of any opening which might be 
made. The prize, too, was worth a risk, for 
apart from the possibility of capturing the impor- 
tant centre of Cambrai, the possession of the 
high ground at Boulon would be of great strategic 
value. The enterprise was placed in the hands 

Copyright, 1916, by 

of General Byng, who had taken Allenby's 
place at the head of the Third Army. Under 
him were, from the north, the Sixth, Fourfbu 
Third, and Seventh Corps, under Haldane, 
Woolcombe, Pulteney, and Snow, containing 
some of the most seasoned fighting material 
in the Army. The troops were brought up 
stealthily by night, and the Tanks, which were 
crawling from every direction towards the 
trysting place, were carefully camouflaged. The 
French had been apprised oi the attack, and had 
made arrangements by which, if there were an 
opening made to the south, some of their divisions 
should be available to take^dvantage of it* 

The Tanks were about four hundred in number, 
and were under the separate command of General 
Elles, a dashing soldier, who inspired the utmost 
enthusiasm in his command. 

One difficulty with which the operations were 
confronted was that it was impossible for the 
guns to register properly without arousing 
suspicion. It was lelt to the gunners, therefore, 
to pick up their range as best they might alter 
the action began, and this they did, with a speed 
and accuracy which showed their high technical 


Taking the description of the operations upon 
November 20th, from the north end of the line, 
we shall first deal with the subsidiary but very 
important and successful attack carried out by 
Haldane's Sixth Corps, in the neighbourhood of 
Bullecourt. The Hindenburg line at this point 
consisted of a front trench, with a second, or 
support trench, three hundred yards behind it # 
and many scattered mebus, or concrete machine* 
gun forts.- The British had already a lodgment 
in part of the front trench, and the main objective 
was now the support trench, which was called 
" Tunnel Trench," because it had a tunnel thirty 
or forty feet deep Uorrg its whole length, with 

A. Conan p 3J *E R siiY OF MICHIGAN 



staircase entrances every twenty-five yards. The 
units to whom the attack was entrusted were- 
the Third Division upon the right and the 
Sixteenth Irish Division upon the left. 

The morning of November 20th was overcast, 
but not actually raining, with low visibility, 
which may account for the fact that the German 
barrage was feeble, slow, and inaccurate. 

The advance of the Sixteenth Division Was 
by three brigades, the 47th on the right, the 
48th in the centre, and the 49th upon the left. 
Every up-to-date infantry-saving device, the 
artillery barrage, the machine-gun barrage, and 
the smoke screen, was used to the full. The guns 
had been reinforced by a portion of the artillery 
of the Thirty-fourth Division, and the support 
which they gave was admirably effective. We 
will trace the attack from the right. ' 

The flank battalion was the 6th Connaughts, 
with the 1st Munsters upon their left. Their 
objective was taken with a spring. The Munsters 
were able to consolidate at once. The Con- 
naughts had more trouble, as a rush of German 
bombers came down upon their right, driving 
the flank company in and forcing it back down 
the sap. For several hours there was hard 
fighting at this point, which was often hand-to- 
hand, when the Irish bayonet-men rushed at the 
German bomb-throwers. Finally, a block and 
a defensive flank were formed, and two big 
mebus, Mars and Jove, were left in the hands 
of the stormers. 

In the centre the advance of the 10th Dublin 
Fusiliers and of the 2nd Dublin Fusiliers was 
entirely successful. So sudden was the attack 
that many of the enemy were found wearing 
their gas-masks. Two large mebus, Juno and 
Minerva, with a good stretclv of Tunnel Trench, 
remained, together with many prisoners, in the 
hands of the stormers. The position was rapidly 
wired with concertina wire, and new trenches 
dug for defence and communication, by the 
55th Field Company.. R.E. and the nth Hants 
Pioneer Battalion. 

On the left the storming battalions were the 
2nd Royal Irish and 7/8th Irish Fusiliers. The 
Royal Irish carried both Tunnel and Support 
trenches, with the Flora mebus, taking two 
hundred prisoners. Many Germans retreated 
into the tunnel, but were pelt€d out again by 
Mill's grenades. The Fusiliers were equally 

successful, but had one short hold-up owing to 
the determined resistance of a single officer and 
ten men. This little party made a brave fight, 
and were so situated that they commanded two 
lines of trench. Eventually they were all killed. 
The Support Trench was occupied, the tunnel 
cleared by the 174th Tunnelling Company, and 
the whole position made good in a most work- 
manlike way. A series of counter-attacks were 
stamped out by the barrage before they could 
get properly going. 

The tunnel, as explained, was a continuous 
gallery opening into the trench. It had 
numerous chambers leading off, fitted with 
wire bunks, tables, etc. The Germans are 
great workers themselves, and they are great 
also at making other people work for them. 
This section was elaborately mined, but the 
position of the leads had been accurately dis- 
covered, and they were soon cut by the sappers. 

In this swift and successful operation some 
six hundred and thirty-five prisoners of the 
470th and 471st Regiments were taken, with 
many minor trophies. Many Germans had 
been killed, three hundred and thirty bodies 
being counted in the trenches alone. Altogether, 
it was a remarkably smooth -running operation, 
and the model of an attack with limited objective 
upon which the generals and all concerned 
might be congratulated. It was the more 
remarkable as it was carried out without pre- 
liminary bombardment, and no help from the 

While the Irish had attacked upon the left a 
single brigade of the Third Division, the 9th, 
advanced upon their right, and, keeping pace 
with their comrades, carried out a most success- 
ful attack, securing a further length of the 
Tunnel Trench. There was no further fighting 
of consequence in this area of the battle, save 
for some movement forwar^ on the part of the 
Irish Division and one short counter-attack by 
the Germans. 


It will be understood that this attach was 
some miles to the north of the main battle, and 
that a long section of unbroken Hindenburg 
line intervened between the two. The real 
advance was upon a frontage of six miles, 
from Hermies in the north to Gonnelieu 



■o*«fT#s ' Iftwinooort Fl«tqmi«r«» Blbtoourt )Ucnl«r«» 1 •lob B14f • Latvia food* 








by. Google 









in the south- Every company of the ad- 
vancing units had been instructed to fall in 
behind its own marked Tank. At six-twenty, j ust 
after dawn, in a favouring haze, General Elles 
gave the signal, his ironclad fleet flowed forward, 
the field of wire went down with a long splintering, 
rending crash, and the eager infantry crowded 
forward down the clear swathed which the 
monsters had cut. At the same moment the 
guns roared out and an effective smoke barrage 
screened the whole strange spectacle from the 
German observers. Everything went without 
a hitch, and in a few minutes the whole Hinden- 
burg front line, with its amazed occupants, was 
in the hands of the assailants- Still following 
their iron guides, they pushed on to their 
further objectives. As these differed, and as 
the fortunes of the units varied, it will be well 
to take them in turn, always working from the 
left oi the line. 

The British front was cut across diagonally 
by a considerable canal with deep sides — the 
Canal du Nord. Upon the north side of this 
was one division. This flank unit was the 
famous 36th Ulsters, who behaved this day 
with their usual magnificent gallantry. Ad- 
vancing with deliberate determination, they 
carried all before them, though exposed to that 
extra strain to which a^ank unit must always 
submit. Their left was enfiladed by the 
enemy, and they had continually to build 
up a defensive line, which naturally sublracted 

from their numbers and made a long advance 
impossible. None the less, after rushing a high 
bank bristling with machine-guns they secured 
the second Hiiideiiburg hue, where they were 
firmly established by ten -thirty, after a sharp 
contest with the garrison, They then swept 
forward, keeping the Canal upon their right, 
until by evening they had established themselves 
upon the Bapaume-Cambrai road. 


Upon the immediate right of the Irishmen was 
the Sixty -second Division of West Riding 
Yorkshire Territorials -one of those second line 
units whose solid excellence has been one of the 
surprises of the war. Six of them had, already 
come to the front, and not one of the six which 
had not made its mark. On this occasion, the' 
men of the West Riding made an advance t which 
was the admiration of the Army and which the 
Field -Marshal, who weighs his words carefully, 
described as " a brilliant achievement/* Their 
first obstacle was the village of Havrin court, 
which, with the aid of the Tanks, they carried in 
dashing style- Behind it lay the Reserve Germn n 
line, which also was taken at the point of the 
bayonet. Surging on the 188th Brigade reached 
and captured the important village of Graincourt, 
much aid i*I by two audacious Tanks. With an 
energy which was still unabated, they pushed on 
to Anneux, where they established themselves 
on the fringe of the houses. It was *a truly 





splendid day's work, in which four and a half 
miles of every devilry which German sappers 
could build, or German infantry defend, were 
inexorably beaten down* In all these operations 
they were aided and supported* not only by the 
Tanks, but by the nth Hussars, and by a 
body of King Edward's Horse, Thirty-seven 
guns and two thousand prisoners were the fine 
trophies of this me division. 

Upon the right of the Yorkshiremcn was the 
Fifty-first Highland Territorial Division, who have 
so gloriously upheld the ancient renown of the 
clansmen. They also made a fine ad vane e h but 
were held up by the strongly -organized village 
of Flesquieres. The approach to it was a long 
slope swept by machine -gun firc h and the 
eo-operation of the Tanks was made difficult by a 
number of advanced field -guns, which destroyed 
the slow- moving machines as they approached up 
the hill. If the passage of the Hindenburg line 
showed the strength oi these machines, the check 
at Flesquieres showed their weakness, for in 
their present state of development they w + ere 
helpless before a well-served field-gun, and a shell 
striking them meant the destruction of the Tank, 
and. usually, the death of the crow. It is said 
tliat a single Prussian artillery officer, who stood 
by his gun to the death, and is chivalrously 
immortalized in the British bulletin, destroyed no 
fewer than sixteen Tanks by direct hits. At the 
same time, the long and solid wall of the chateau 
formed an obstacle to the infantry, as did the 

Digitized by (jOOglC 

tangle of wire which surrounded the village, 
The lighting was very severe and the losses 
considerable, but before evening the Highlanders 
had secured the ground round the village* and 
were close up to the village itself. The delay 
had. however, a sinister effect upon the British 
plans, as the defiant village, spitting out flames 
and lead from every cranjxy and window, swept 
the ground around, and created a broad zone on 
either side, across which progress w + as difficult 
and dangerous. It was the resistance of this 
village and the subsequent breaking of the bridges 
upon the canal which prevented the cavalry from 
fulfilling their full role upon this first day of battle. 
None the less, as dismounted units, they did 
sterling work p and one small mounted body of 
Canadian Cavalry, the Fort Garry Horse, from 
Winnipeg, particularly distinguished itself, getting 
over ever}' obstacle, taking a German battery, 
dispersing a considerable body of infantry, and 
returning, after a day of desperate adventure, 
without their horses, but with samples of the 
forces which they had encountered. It was a 
splendid deed of arms, for which Lieutenant 
Henry Strachen, who led the charge after the 
fall of the squadron leader, received the coveted 

1'pon the right of the Fifty-first Division was 
the Sixths which was faced by the village of 
Ribecourt. Into this it stormed, and after some 
heavy street and house fighting it cleared it of 
its German garrison, The advance w f as carried 




out with the 71st Brigade upon the right and 
the 1 8th upon the left. The village was carried 
by storm by the 9th Norfolks of the 71st Brigade 
passing through the 1st Leicester^, who, together 
with the 2nd Sherwood Foresters, had stormed 
the Hindenburg line, following close upon the 
Tanks, on whose iron flanks they could hear 
the rifle bullets patter like hailstones. The losses 
of the division were light, as their instructions 
were to dig in upon the farther side of the village, 
and act as a connecting link. The Foresters, 
however, had at least one sharp tussle before 
they gained their full objective. A shock 
battalion charged them, and there was a period of 
desperate fighting, during which the Germans 
displayed a valour which sometimes was almost 
that of fanatics. " One of their companies was 
cut off. We offered them quarter, but they 
would not hear of it. The last to go was a young 
sub. When he saw that all was up, he drew his 
revolver and shot himself. As he fell, I ran 
forward in the hope to save him, for he was a . 
brave lad. When I got to his side, he looked at 
me with a look of intense hate, and tried to take 
aim with his pistol. It fell from his hand, and 
he fell dead with that look of hate still on his 

In connection with this advance of the Sixth 
Division, it should be stated that the 2nd Durham 
Light Infantry upon the left charged a battery 
find captured the guns, a fine feat of arms. 

Upon the right of the Sixth Division was the 
Twenty-ninth Regular Division, which was held 
back from the advance until its flank was secured 
upon the right. When this had been accomplished 
by the Twelfth Division, it dashed swiftly forward 
upon a three brigade front, the 87th an<^ 86th 
Brigades seizing, respectively, Marcoing and 
Neuf Wood, which is immediately beyond it. 
Here they found themselves in very close 
collaboration with the Sixth Division, through 
whom they passed in their advance. On the right 
the r 88th Brigade, after hard fighting in the 
Hindenburg support line, captured Les Roues 
Vertes and part of Mesnieres. The taking of 
these two villages was really of great importance 
in the general scheme of operations, and the 
advances of the divisions upon either flank may 
be looked upon as simply a screen to cover the 
Twenty-ninth while it sped forward upon its 
venture. The reason of this was that the Canal 
de l'Escaut, a very formidable obstacle, covered 
the whole German front south of Cambrai, and 
that unless it were taken, all advance in this 
direction was impossible. There were bridges at 
Mesnieres and Marcoing, and these were the 
1 nearest points to the British line. Hence it was 
that the flanks of the Twenty-ninth were carefully 
covered, and a clear opening made for it, that 
with one tiger spring it might seize this vital 
position. The bridge at Marcoing was captured 
intact, the leading Tank shooting down the party 
who were engaged in its demolition. At Mesnieres, 
which is the more important point, the advancing 
troops were less fortunate, as the bridge had 
already been injured, and an attempt by a Tank 
to cross it led to both bridge and Tank crashing 
down into the canal. This proved to be a serious 

by V_ 



misfortune, and coupled with the hold-up a* 
Flesquieres, was the one untoward event in a 
grand day's work. Both the Tanks and the 
cavalry were stopped by the broken bridge, *and 
though the infantry still pushed on, their advance 
was slower, as it was necessary to clear that part 
of the village which lay north of the Canal, and 
then to go forward without support over open 

Thus the "Germans had time to organize 
resistance upon the low hills from Rumilly to 
Crevecceur, and to prevent the advance reaching 
its full limits. A footbridge was secured by the 
Newfoundlanders at Mesnieres, and it may be 
mentioned as a curious example of the wide 
sweep of the British Empire that the first man 
to get across it, and to lose his life in- the gallant 
deed, was an Esquimaux from Labrador. The 
centre brigade got about one thousand five 
hundred yards beyond Marcoing, but there the 
Germans from Cambrai had formed a new line 
which could not be forced. The ^enemy 
recognized this advance as being for the moment 
the most menacing part of the British line, and 
at once adopted the very strongest measures to 
push it back and secure the bridgeheads of the 
Canal. Several times upon November 21st they 
raged against this point of the line, and made 
desperate attempts to gain the two villages. 
Noyelle, which was held by the 1st Lancashire 
Fusiliers, was also strongly attacked upon that 
day, but with the aid of the 2nd Royal Fusiliers 
and 1 6th Middlesex the village was held against 
a series of onslaughts, one position changing 
hands seven times. Some of these counter- 
attacks were delivered by Prussian Guards, 
hastily brought from Lens, and the fighting was as 
severe as it usually is when the Kaiser's own men 
put in an appearance. These events, however, 
were on the 21st, and we must return to the 
first day of the battle. 

On the right of the Twenty-ninth was. the 
Twentieth Division. In front of them, upon 
the farther side of the line, had lain the powerfully 
fortified farm of La, Vacquerie ; and this they 
had taken with their first rush. Beyond lay a 
long slope, strongly held by the Germans, called 
the Welsh Ridge. .This also was stormed by the 
. Twentieth, who kept pace with the right flank 
of the Twenty-ninth, and pushed their advance 
forward as far as the Canal. At the same time 
the 59th Brigade was thrown out upon the right 
to make a prolongation of the defensive flank 
built up by the Twelfth Division, and so screen 
the main attack. All went well with the right 
of this advance, but the left, consisting of the 
10th K.R.R., was held for a time by a strong 
point, which eventually surrendered and yielded 
two hundred prisoners. Some of this battalion 
saw the enemy running towards Mesnieres, and 
pursued them to the main bridge. The troops 
received a most affectionate welcome from the 
inhabitants of the houses along the Cambrai 
road. The attack upon the left was carried out 
by the 60th Brigade, which swept with little 
resistance over the Hindenburg line, but had 
some trouble with strong points beyond. 

We now come to the Twelfth Division 

Original from 



upon the flank. Its task was, in some ways, 
the most difficult ot any, as it had not only 
to advance upon important objectives, but 
to build up a flank line of resistance as it 
went, since the whole attack might have been 
checked and brought to ruin by an enemy assault 
from the south. The 36th Brigade upon the left 
advanced with the 9th Royal Fusiliers and 
7th Sussex in their front line, while two companies 
of the 8th Fusiliers were thrown out upon the 
left to aid in the attack upon La Vacquerie. 
On the right, by the Banteaux Spur, was the 
35th Brigade, "With the 9th Essex and 5th Berk- 
shires in the front. The latter battalion lost 
heavily from the fire of guns on their right. 
When on the line of Bleak House, the supporting 
battalions, two companies of Fusiliers and the 
nth Middlesex upon the left, the 7th Suffolks 
and part of the 7th Norfolks upon the right, 
passed on to the objective. •'The 37th Brigade 
then passed through upon the right, and settled 
in an echelon of battalions along the flank, the 
7th East Surreys and 6th Burls starting the line, 
while the 6th West Kent and 6th West Surrey 
prolonged it. While executing this delicate and 
complicated movement the battalions were 
under heavy fire, arid had to clear Lateau Wood 
of the enemy, so that it was a fine bit of work 
on the part both of the leaders and of the men. 
The two Chief points of German resistance 
outside the wood were the forts of Pam-Parn and 
Bona vis, both of which were attacked by Tanks, 
and then carried by storm by the Kentish 
infantry. By eleven o'clock the whole advance, 
covering a front of two thousand with a depth 
of five thousand five hundred yards, had reached 
its full objectives at every point. The total 
losses of the division were about one thousand 
three hundred men. Major Alderman, com- 
manding the West Kents, was among those who 
fell. It may be added that from this day until 
the fateful 30th the division was out of the 
battle, and made no move, save that on Noveml>er 
24th the 35th and 36th Brigades pushed a short 
way down the slope eastwards to the St. Quentin 


There were no operations of any importance 
during the night of the 20th, but early upon 
November 21st the British line began to move 
forward once more, the same divisions being 
engaged in the advance. In the north the 
Ulster, -men, who had attained the line of the 
Cambrai-Bapaume road, crossed that boundary, 
and pushed onwards up the slope for about a 
mile until they reached the outskirts of the 
village of Mceuvres. It was soon apparent, both 
here and at other points along the line, that the 
Germans with their usual military efficiency had 
brought up their reserves even more rapidly than 
had been expected, and the resistance at Moeuvres 
was so determined that the tired division was 
unable to overcome it, although they won some 
ground to the west of the village. 

The Sixty-second Division upon the right of 
the Ulstermen had partially won Anneux upon 
the night before, and now they were able to 

complete their conquest. They then drove 
across the Cambrai road and reached the edge 
of the considerable plantation called Bourlon 
Wood, which rises upon a swelling hill, the summit 
being so marked in that gently undulating 
country that it becomes, a landmark in the 
distance. Here there was a strong opposition 
with so murderous a machine-gun fire that all 
progress was arrested, though a number of Tanks 
drove their way in among the trees in an effort 
to break down the resistance. In the meantime, 
the flank of the Yorkshiremen had been pro- 
tected by the capture of the village of Cantaing, 
with several hundred more prisoners. 

Early in the day the 51st had got round 
the northern edge of Flesquieres, the village 
which had held up the centre of the advance 
upon the first day. As a consequence it fell, 
and the front was cleared for a further advance. 
The Scotch infantry was then able to make a 
rapid advance of nearly three miles, taking 
Cantaing with five hundred prisoners, upon the 
way, arid winding up in front of the village of 
Fontain^-Notre-Darne, which they stormed in a 
very brilliant fashion with the aid of Tanks and 
of some squadrons bf the First Cavalry Division. 

Farther south the Sixth and Twenty-ninth 
Divisions, acting in close co-operation, had 
pushed their way through Mesnieres, where 
they met and defeated a counter-attack from 
the direction of Rumilly. It was clear that 
every hour the German line was thickening in 
this quarter. Whilst the Sixth cleared trie 
ground upon the left, the Twenty-ninth pushed 
forward to the west of the great Canal, and 
reached Noyelles. 

In the meantime, the 10th Rifle Brigade of 
the Twentieth Division, upon the right, had 
first taken and then lost JLes Rues des Vignes, 
an important position upon the British side of 
the Canal. In the afternoon the nth Rifle 
Brigade managed to cross the Canal and 
endeavoured to push up towards Crevecoeur* 
but at this point the River Scheldt ran on the 
farther side and offered an impediment which 
could not be crossed. Orders were issued by 
General Byng that a fresh attempt should be 
made next morning, but the troops were weary 
and the losses heavy, so the instructions were 
cancelled^ and the line remained unaltered at 
this point. 


The end of the second day of battle found the 
British command faced with a difficult problem, 
and we have the Field-Marshal's own lucid 
analysis of the alternative courses open and as 
to r the reasons which prompted his decision. 
The capture of Cambrai had never been the 
goal of the operations, though a cavalry raid, 
which would have disorganized the communi- 
cations through that town, had at one time 
seemed possible. A turning of the line to the 
south, with the co-operation of some French 
divisions which were ready upon the spofc was 
part of the original conception, and was baulked 
by the insufficient hold established upon the 
farther side of the Canal de l'Escaut. But the 




central idea had been the capture of the high 
ground of Bourlon Hill and Wood, for, with this 
in British possession, a considerable stretch of 
the defensive German line would lie open to 
observed artillery fire, and its retention would 
probably mean a fresh withdrawal to the east. 
It had been hoped that the goal would have been 
attained within forty-eight hours, but this time 
had elapsed, and the assailants were at the 
bottom instead of the summit of the hill with a 
resistance in front which was continually grow- 
ing more obstinate. Wha't was to be done ? 
The troops could not remain where they were, 
for the Bourlon Hill overlooked their position. 
They must carry it or retire. There was some- 
thing to be said for the latter policy, as the 
Flesquieres Ridge could be held, and the capture 
of ten thousand prisoners and over one hundred 
guns had already made the victory a notable 
one. On the other hand, while there is a chance 
of achieving a full decision it is hard to abandon 
an effort ; reinforcements were coming up, and 
the situation in Italy demanded a supreme effort 
upon the Western Front. With all these con- 
siderations in his mind the Field-Marshal deter- 
mined to carry on. 


The new advance began upon the night of 
November 22nd, when the 56th Londoners re- 
inforced the Ulsters upon the left of the line on 
the outskirts of the village of Mceuvres. To the 
west of the village, between it and the Hinden- 
burg line, ^vas an important position, Tadpole 
Copse, which formed a flank for any further 
advance. This was carried by a surprise attack 
in splendid style by the 1st Westminsters of the 
169th Brigade. During the day both the 
Londoners and the Ulster men tried hard, 
though with limited success, to enlarge the 
gains in this part of the held. 

The attack was now pointing more and more 
to the north, where the wooded height of 
Bourlon marked the objective. In the southern 
part the movements of the troops were rather 
holding demonstrations than serious attacks. 
The real front of battle was marked by the 
reverse side of the Hindenburg line upon the 
left, the hill, wood, and village of Bourlon in 
the centre, s^nd the flanking village of Fontaine 
upon the right. All of these were more or less 
interdependent, for if one did not take Bourlon 
it was impossible to hold Fontaine, which lay 
beneath it, while on the other hand any attack 
upon Bourlon was difficult while the flanking 
fire of Fontaine was unquenched. From Moeuvres 
to Fontaine was a good six miles of most difficult 
ground, so that it was no easy task which a thin 
line of divisions was asked to undertake — indeed, 
only four divisions were really engaged, the 
Thirty-sixth and Fifty-sixth on the left, the 
Fortieth in the centre, and the Fifty-first on the 

The operations of November 23rd began by 
an attack by the enduring Fflty-first Division, 
who had now been four days in the fighting line, 
against Fontaine Village — an attentpt in which 
they were aided by a squadron of Tanks. De- 

by LiOOgle 

feated in the first effort, they none the less 
renewed their attack in the afternoon and 
established themselves in the village, but had 
not sufficient momentum to break their way 
through it. There they hung on in most desperate 
and difficult fighting, screening their comrades 
in the main Bourlon attack, but at most grievous 
cost to themselves. 


The main attack was entrusted to the Fortieth 
Division, a unit which had never yet found itself 
in the full lurid light of this great stage, 7>ut 
which played its first part very admirably none 
the less. It was a terrible obstacle which lay 
in front of it, for the thick and sloping wood 
was no less than six hundred acres in extent, a 
thick forest with autumn foliage, hardly touched 
by shell fire, while the village upon its north- 
western flank came also within the area of their 
attack. The men, hpwever, had been specially 
exercised in wood fighting, a precaution which 
all agree to have been of the greatest possible 
value in the day of battle. When at 10.30 a.m. 
the signal was given to advance, the 121st 
Brigade went forward with alacrity upon the 
left, while on the right the 119th Brigade plunged 
into the wood, the Brigadier, a dare-devil little 
warrior, setting an example to his men which 
none who followed him will forget. About thirty- 
Tanks lumbered forward in front of the advancing 
lines. The west edge of the wood formed the 
dividing line between the right and left attack. 

It was arranged that the Tanks should, so far 
as possible, go down those rides which are so 
conspicuous a feature of every French forest, 
while the infantry should move between them. 
The 119th Brigade moved forward with the 19th 
Welsh Fusiliers upon the right, the 12th South 
Wales Borderers on the left, while the 17th 
Welsh were in close reserve. It was the second 
occasion in the war when a splendid piece of 
woodland fighting was carried through by the 
men of the Principality, and even Mametz was 
not a finer performance than Bourlon. They 
rapidly broke through the German front line, 
capturing numerous prisoners and machine-guns. 
The Fusiliers pushed their way forward to the 
north edge, where posts were established, while 
the edge of the Welsh Borderers brushed the 
village of Bourlon and got north of that point. 
The 17th Welsh meanwhile formed defensive 
flanks upon either side, while the 18th Welsh 
came up to reinforce and pushed ahead of their 
comrades, with the result that they were driven 
in by a violent counter-attack"! The line was 
re-established, however, and before one o'clock 
the 119th Brigade were dug in along the whole 
northern edge of the forest. It was a fine attack, 
and was not marred by excessive losses, though 
Colonel Kennedy, of the 17th Welsh, was killed. 

It was clear that the Germans would make 
every effort to regain the wood, and immediate 
steps were taken to strengthen the defence, 
which was already firmly established through 
the energy of the O.C. Fusiliers. The 14th 
Argyll and Sutherlands were sent up to thicken 
the line, as were the 15th Hussars, who were 




doing great service as a mobile loot battalion. 
More machine-gmts were also pushed to the 
(rout, The result of these measures , all taken 
before nightfall, was fchat the inevitable counter- 
attacks, which, materialized before dawn, were 
hrft bark by a blaze of fire from the fringe of 
brushwood. Early in the morning of November 
24th a resolute endeavour of the German stormers 
gained a lodgment for them to the right of the 
British line, where they captured some of the 
machine -guns. During the whole of this day 
the enemy pressed hardly upon the weakening 
line, and at three in the afternoon had pushed 
them back from the whole of the right half of 

fi fillip J &0L 



the wood, but Welshmen, Highlanders, and 
Hussars gathered themselves for a supreme 
effnrt and, dashing at the Germans, swept them 
hack once more to their old position. We shall 
leave the 1 19th Brigade still holding fast upon 
the evening of the 24th to their advanced 
position, while we follow the fortunes of the 
121st Brigade from the time of the original 
attack upon November 2$rd- 

This brigade had, as already stated, advanced 
upon the village of Bourlon with the 20th 
Middlesex upon the right and the 13th York- 
shires upon the left, the latter in close touch 
with the 107th Brigade ni Ulstcrmen upon the 
west of their front , the whole line to swing 
round and attack the western edge of the village. 
The 2 rst Middlesex were in close support to 
give weight to the left of the line, while the 
1 2th Suffolk^ were in reserve* The UJstermeu 
had been held up ?iy heavy machine-gun finr. 

by Google 

which exposed the left flank of the Yorkshires, 
who, in turn, could not get forward. This in 
turn brought the two Middlesex battalions to a 
halt, who were ahead y well up to the village 
Three out of six Tanks upon this Hank were put 
out of action by armour-piercing bullets. After 
a pause, both the Yorkshires and some of the 
Middlesex got into the village* but their flank 
was always hart-, and the best they could th> 
was to hold on to the southern edge. None thi* 
less, the line was firm and formidable, as was 
found by a German attack carried out by the 
oth Grenadier Regiment in the late afternoon, 
which was swept hack by the British fire. All day 

the enemy strove hard 
to clear the village, 
and all day the 121st 
Brigade held splendidly 
to its gains. Where all 
were fine, the non-com- 
missioned officers were 
particularly splendid. 
Some critic has finely 
said * that if the Day 
of Judgment were to 
come a British non- 
com missioned officer 
would still be found 
imploring his neigh- 
bours not to get f]ie 
wind up. 

During the night 
the hard -pressed line 
was thickened by the 
arrival of the 19th 
Hussars and Bedford 
Yoeinanry, who took 
over the left of the 
position. The 14th 
Highland Light Infan- 
try were also brought 
up from the reserve 
brigade* and twelve 
more Tanks came into 
line. The 12th Suffolk* 
had formed upon the 
left of the High- 
landers,, and these two 
battalions, with the cavalry and the Tanks, 
made a united attack upon the village of 
Bourlon on the afternoon of the 24th* In 
the confusion of house-to-house combat the 
two battalions were separated, the Surf oiks 
getting penned in at the south corner of 
the village, while the Highlanders, who had 
made a splendid advance, w r ere isolated in the 
north-east. The situation was serious, and two 
reserve battalions — the 13th Surreys and 12th 
Royal Lancaster^ — were brought up after dusk. 
A body of dismounted cavalry, drawn from the 
2nd and 5th Dragoon Guards and the nth 
Hussars, were also pushed into the fight. With 
these troops the G,OX\ made a strong attempt 
upon the mo ruing of November 25th to forte 
his way through the village, but the Tanks w T liieh 
he had expected did not arrive, and his infantry 
were not strong enough for the task. 

Colonel Battye^ of the Highlanders, had been 

Original from 




killed,, and the O.C. East Surreys, who had 
assumed local command, did all that a man 
could do, but the losses were too heavy, and the 
Highlanders were seen ho more. Up to the 26th 
the O.C, with his headquarters in the firing-line, 
was able to send up rations to the survivors of 
the three isolated companies, who had made a 
wonderful resistance for nearly two days. In 
the end it was only by great skill that his own 
battalion, the East Surreys, were rescued from 
their dangerous position. 

In the meantime, from the morning of the 
25th, the 119th Brigade had made a splendid 
fight in the wood against fierce attacks, which 
beat up against their right flank. On this date, 
three battalions of the 3rd Guards' Brigade, the 
2nd Scots Guards, 1st and 4th Grenadier Guards, 
were thrown in td help the Fortieth Division in 
its heavy task. Two companies of the nth Royal 
Lancasters were also brought forward, and 
succeeded in doing some very brilliant work. 
The flank was held during the day. Upon that 
night, the weary, division was drawn out, being 
relieved by the Sixty-second Yorkshire Division, 
which, by some miracle, after only two days of 
rest was judged to be battle-worthy once more. 
It was, indeed, a case of the tired relieving those 
who were only a little more tired than themselves, 
but the line had to be held and not another man 
was available. The artillery of the Fortieth 
Division, which had shown remarkable efficiency, 
and co-operated very closely with the infantry, 
remained in action. During its brilliant spell of 
service the Fortieth Division had taken seven 
hundred and* fifty prisoners, but its casualties 
were very heavy, 


The British position was now a difficult one, 
for the enemy held the ridge above Fontaine, and 
also the high ground between Bourlon and the 
Hindenburg line, so that they had commanding 
observation upon both sides. With great 
persistence, however, in spite of the continual 
thickening of the German line, the British 
Commanders determined, after a pause for 
breath, to make one more effort to capture both 
Fontaine, which had relapsed into enemy hands, 
and the village of Bourlon with the whole of the 
Ridge. The Guards, the 47th London Terri- 
torials, and the Second Division had all appeared 
upon the scene, so that the striking force was 
stronger than before. Upon November 27th, 
the Guards made a strong effort upon Fontaine, 
having relieved the Fifty-first Division in that 
sector. The 3rd Guards Brigade had already 
become involved, as described in the defence by 
the Fortieth Division of Bourlon Wood. It was 
the 2nd Brigade which was now marslialled to 
attack upon a very wide front, from Fontaine 
Village on the right, to Bourlon Village on the 
left, this latter advance being in support of the 
attack by the Sixty-second Division upon 
the position which had been lost. It was carried 
out by the 2nd Irish, while the 1st Coldstreams, 
3rd Grenadiers, and 1st Scots were, respectively, 

upon the left, centre, and right of the advance | 
upon the village, which came down the line of the 
Cambrai road. 

The attack started at 6.20 in the morning. 
The flank battalion of Scots Guards, by the use ] 
of a sunken road, got well up to the village 
without heavy loss, but a blast of machine-gun 
fire from a small house about two hundred yards 
away played havoc with the 3rd Grenadiers, 
who, none the less, rushed forward, stormed the 
house, and secured their first objective. The 
Coldstreams also suffered heavily from machine- 
gun fire from a post north of the railway, and 
half their numbers were on the ground before ! 
they also reached their objective. The remains 
of these two gallant battalions cleared the 
whole village, and captured about a thousand 
prisoners, but were unable to get more than six 
hundred to the rear. By ten o'clock the whole 
position had been taken, but the victors had 
suffered so severely that they were unable to 
cover so large a perimeter, and about eleven 
o'clock the Germans, passing through the 
numerous gaps in the defence, bade fair to cut off 
the whole British force. The 4th Grenadiers of 
the 3rd Brigade were sent up to reinforce, and 
the remains of the 2nd Brigade drawn clear of 
the village and settled into trenches in front of it. 
The attack was, in many ways, a very difficult 
one, for the village had been little touched by the ' 
artillery, there was much wire intact south of the 
Cambrai road, and the machine-gun fire from 
La Folie Wood swept all the approaches. The 
brigade lost heavily in the venture. 

Meanwhile the gallant Yorkshiremen of the 
Sixty-second, together with the*2nd Irish Guards, 
drove their way through Bourlon Wood, in spite 
of a desperate resistance from a German line 
which included several battalions of the Guards] 
• Many prisoners were taken, but many others 
escaped in the confused fighting among the 
brushwood and tree trunks. Once again the 
counter-attacks were too strong for the thin ranks - 
who had reached their goal, and the British, 
after reaching both the village and the north end 
of the wood, were pushed out once more. At 
the same time, the British held a strong position 
on the lull, and in the wood, so that there were 
still hopes of a successful' issue if the German • 
resistance could be outworn. The trophies of 
the battle up to date had been over one hundred 
German guns, ten thousand five hundred 
prisoners, three hundred and fifty machine-guns, 
and, above all, the valuable stretch of Hinden- 
burg's line^ * 

It was in this last phase of the advance, and, 
indeed, after the fighting had ended, that General 
Bradford was killed by a chance shell. This 
young soldier, who, at the age of twenty-five, 
commanded one of the brigades of the Sixty- 
second Division, was one of the great natural 
leaders disclosed by the war. It was, indeed, 
a cruel fate which took him away between full 
promise and full performance. England could 
ill spare such a man at such a time. 

[The sudden change which makes this battle the most dramatic in the war will be described in the 

next chapter.] 

Original from 



Illustrated* £if Kay Edmunds 

ROM Laburnam Villa, Upprr 
Tooting, to Johnson ville, at the 
foot of the Rockies, is '* some " 
change ; and Maudie Browne 
realized it fully as she stood at 
the window of the little wooden 
house, with '.' Bank " painted 
in a bright, uncompromising red 
above its cranky plank door. What she had 
pictured for herself, Heaven knows \ perhaps a 
prosperous, well-built little town with a few 
good shops, and quite " nice ] * people sauntering 
before the windows — a kind of ruralized, American 
Upper Tooting. What she saw with her dismayed 
eyes was an irregular cluster of " shack " houses 
like the bank, the general stores, common to all 
raw and callow American communities, and 
men and women who looked to Maudie as if 
they had stepped out of one of the cowboy 
cinemas, which hitherto she had regarded as 
having no more solid basis than tho over- 
stimulated br^in of the man who invented the 
stories for the picture theatres. 

In the office below the room in which she 
stood was her Uncle Benjamin, who ran the 
bank; and to Maudie he was almost as vague 
and unsubstantial as liad been the cinema 
pictures \ for, beyond the fact that she had an 
uncle -i banker " in Americaj she had not 
realized his existence until, on the death of her 
father and the discovery that she; was left with 
d bare fifty pounds a year, she received an 
invitation from Uncle Benjamin to come out 
and keep house for him. 

Maudie was suburban from head to foot — in 
Suburbia live the pretty girls and brainy men ; 
nothing had ever occurred in her uneventful 
life of which even the late Mr, Henry James 
could have made romance : her greatest excite- 
ment liad been a theatre — she admired Dennis 
Eadie, but adored Gerald du Maurier — ot it 

Copyright, 19 jB, 

subscription dance. For mild amusement she 
read novels by the score ; paid or received 
afternoon calls at which hot tea, buns, and "our 
famous shilling Madeira cake "—this was in pre- 
war days — were consumed liberally, accompanied 
by tea, and cream reserved for these ceremonial 
occasions ; and once a fortnight, say, went up 
to town shopping. She was $0 conventional that 
she was scarcely aware that the youth of her 
own set in the locality called her ** The Flower 
of Upper Tooting/' and if anyone had ventured 
to tell her that she was a very beautiful girl she 
would have been offended. Even. Percy Smith, 
the man she was engaged to, had not done so. 
Knowing this, no one had so offended, unless 
one excepts her looking-glass, which reflected a 
charmingly oval face with delicately moulded 
features, clear blue eyes, pretty, gravely curved 
lips, and a wealth of wavy hair which resembled 
" corn ripe for the sickle/' 

At tea, on the afternoon of her arrival, Uncle 
Ben p guessing some tiling of her surprise and 
disappointment, had offered an apology for 
Johnson ville, 

"Not quite what you expected, I'm afraid, 
eh, Maudie dear ? Well, you sec, we are a 
new— er — town* We're only at the beginning 
"of things as yet ; but " — hopefully — " it is 
wonderful how quickly things grow over here. 
In England nothing moves, that is perceptibly ; 
but here we progress by— er — leaps and bounds, 
First it's just a log hut or two in a kind of 
wilderness, and you'd think that so it would 
remain ; but presently the huts grow, some ol 
the new ones run to two storeys ; a post-office 
is opened, Then, suddenly, along comes tho 
railway, and a bank — and there's your town ! " 

by Chaiks 1 *«irvice. 




" I see," said Maudie. " And the shops and 
theatre, when do they come ? " 

" Oh — er — a little later on, when we've struck 
oil or started a big mill or opened mines for 
coal or minerals, which wc hope to do presently* 
Meanwhile, we are getting on very well ; there 
are some good ranches — farms — our wool is in 
fair demand, and the canning trade is flourishing, 
I hope you won't find it dull ; there's not much 
« — er — society, I'm afraid ; nothing like that 
you've been accustomed to in — er — Upper 
Tooting ; but there are some pleasant people 
amongst the farmers and land surveyors ; there's 
a lawyer — you'll like Mrs. Fletcher — and. there 
is a parson. They are all hospitable and friendly, 
and I'm sure they'll make you welcome." 

They were, and they did. Before the week 
was out Maudie found herself the object of a 
hospitality boundless and overwhelming, the 
object likewise of an admiration which w^ls as 
universal as it was outspoken ; and despair 
settled down on many a manly heart when the 
fact that Maudie was engaged became to some 
extent public knowledge. For a time the novelty 
Of her surroundings amused and interested her. 
but presently the heavy teas, the still heavier 
suppers, the mild picnics, and Mrs. Fletcher's 
local gossip began to afflict her with a boredom 
which even Percy's letters — he wrote every 
Sunday — did not tend to relieve. 

For, to toll the truth, Percy's letters were not 
enlivening. He was a stockbroker's clerk ; his 
heart and soul were absorbed in his business ; 
and his desire to " get on " — it was the dread 
lest an improvident marriage should interfere 
with his " getting on " which had prevented 
his offering a home to Maudie — was the driving 
power of his existence ; therefore his epistles, 
full of details of his daily life, could scarcely be 
Called thrilling. His accounts of his weekly 
battle with his landlady and his laundress, his 
quarrels with his fellow-clerks, and # his mother's 
tea-fights left Maudie somewhat cold. Some- 
how, bored as she was, she felt that if she returned 
to Upper Tooting she might be bored there as 
she had not been bored in the old days. For 
the rest, she kept her Uncle Ben's house beauti- 
fully, did the new crochet work, and found some 
amusement and interest in watching the novel 
and strange life of Johnson ville as it could be 
surveyed from the window of her room above 
the office. 

One afternoon she was seated there when she 
was aware of an excitement almost amounting to 
commotion. To the accompaniment of a clatter 
of hoofs, some shouts, and the rapid dispersal 
of persons in the roadway, a young man rode 
down the street and pulled Up with dramatic 
suddenness at the door of the bank. He was 
an extremely handsome young man, with rather 
long, raven-black hair and bold, piercing eyes,; 
he was dressed like one of the cowboys of the 
cinema. The horse he rode was a magnificent 
animal, and its owner sat it — well, with the 
traditional ease and grace with which a "movie" 
cowboy should sit his steed. Maudie 's blue eyes 
opened wide with a reluctant admiration ; for, 
ignorant as she was of the type, she knew 

by Google 

1 instinctively that this wild -loo king horseman 
was not a " nice " man. 

His entry of the bank, though, of course, it 
did not create there the excitement and com- 
motion it had caused outside, seemed to have 
made somewhat of a stir in that sedate and 
highly respectable office ; she could hear a rich, 
resonant voice making some demand, her uncle's 
bland response ; there ^vere a few minutes of 
talk between the two contrasting voices, then 
the horseman emerged, butioning up his big 
flapped pocket, and leapt on his horse. As he 
started it he happened to glance upwards, and 
saw the girl's face at the window. He checked 
the horse, and as he sat, still as a statue, gazing 
straight into the blue eyes framed in the masses 
of golden hair, the colour burnt through the tan 
of his audaciously handsome countenance, and 
bis lips curved. 

Maudie 's eyes met his as if she were hypnotized 
— perhaps she was — and her soft red lips parted 
with a kind of sigh of a more intense, though 
still reluctant, admiration. Then, conscious of 
her sensations, she lowered her eyes and blushed. 

With a flash of the daring, defiant, and 
masterful eyes, the young man threw up his 
hand to his broad sombrero, as if he- were saluting 
her beauty, and rode up the street, which 
promptly cleared for him. 

" Who was the young man, dressed like a 
cowboy, who rode into the bank just now, 
Uncle Ben ? " asked Maudie at tea-time. 

Uncle Ben gave a little, respectable, depre- 
catory cough. 

" Oh — er — that was Jack L'Estrange," he 
replied, with a certain unwillingness. " He 
came to draw some money/' 

"He is very handsome, but looks rather — 
wild," she remarked, with assumed casual ness. 

" He is," said Uncle Ben, dryly. " He is 
the wildest young man in the district. Fm 
afraid " 

" What are you afraid of ? " she inquired, as 
he paused. 

" That he will come to no good ; in fact, to a 
bad end." 

" Why ? " she asked, demurely. 

" Well — er — he drinks, and he is quite irre- 
spcnsible. He is our local bravado ; a reckless 
and very— er — dissipated young man. I fear he 
will get into serious trouble before long." 

" Oh ! Wliat has he done ? " asked^ Maudie, 
N^iow with obvious interest. 

" What has he not done ? would be the easier 
question," said Uncle Ben, with a rueful smile. 
" He drinks heavily, as I've said ; he gambles, 
and is the terror of JohnsonvUle. He has 
actually committed murder," 

Maudie opened her eyes and let her teaspoon 
drop with a clatter as she echoed the horrid 

" Well— er — scarcely murder, perhaps. At 
any rate, he was acquitted by a jury. Such a 
jury I All friends of his or persons afraid to 
convict him. Though I am bound to admit the 
man he killed deserved to die ; he had been — 
er — cruel to a child, a little girl — er — I need not 
go into particulars." 




" I see ; he was a wretch. The jury was 
quite right ; I'm glad," said Maudie, fiercely, 
stoutly, the colour mounting to her face, her 
blue eyes flashing. " Is — is that the worst 
Mr. — what is his name ? " 

" L'E?t range ; he is of foreign extraction. 
French, I suppose. Yes,„that*s the worst he has 
done ; but it's bad enough. The law " 

" I dare say," she broke in ; " but the law 
might have let the other man off ; he might 
have had friends on the jury, or frightened 

Uncle Ben smiled at this sample of feminine 
logic, and nodded a reluctant assent. 

" Pity ! " he said, musingly. " It cannot be 
denied that Jack has his good points ; he is 
very generous, good-tempered, and — er — taking. 
All the children — and most of the women— 
ahem — adore him. And he is very comfortably 
off ; he owns one of our best ranches. If he 
would stick to work and drop the drink — but 
I'm afraid that's past hoping for/' 

He changed the subject by asking after Percy. 

" Oh, he's very well," she said ; " he lias had 
a rise — quite a good rise." 

" Splendid ! " exclaimed Uncle Bed. " He'll 

soon be able " He sighed : he had grown 

fond of his niece and didn't want to lose her. 

Maudie blushed. " Yes, perhaps," she mur- 

An hour later she met the Terror of Johnson- 
ville. He was coming down the street, on foot, 
as if he had bought it and hadn't made up his 
mind whether to keep it or not. Two children 
clung to either huge hand, and one hung on to 
the belt, into which was stuck his Browning 
revolver. At sight of the girl he stopped short, 
stared at her, then, looking straight ahead, 
passed on. 

Maudie, as she passed with lowered lids, 
dropped her handkerchief : not with intent ; 
if you think so you do an injustice to Upper 
Tooting. She was — yes, agitated, and the drop 
was an unconscious one. Jack stooped, caught 
up the dainty apology for a useful article, and 
strode after her, lugging some of the children 
with him. 

" You've — you've dropped this," he faltered, 
the morsel of cambric and lace held daintily 
between his' finger and thumb. 

Maudie coloured, took the handkerchief, and 
bowed. She was passing on, demure — Tooting 
from top to toe— when suddenly he said, in- 
tensely : — 

" Say, I'd like to know you." 

To say that Maudie was, well, astonished, 
would be a gross inadequacy. She opened her 
eyes on him, drew herself up, then — oh, ye gods 
of the South-Western district I — faltered out : — 

" Why ? " 

He struck up his hat at this direct retort, 
demand, and looked from side to side helplessly ; 
then, with a smile which ran over eye and lips 
and transformed his face into that of an innocent 
child — it was Jdck's smile which no woman or 
youngster could stand up against — he said :-' 

" Dashed if I know ! That's where you get 
me f But, yes, I do. When I saw you at the 

Digitized by CjOOglC 

window — mind, I was sober I — well, sober 
enough — I said, * Jack, my son, that young lady 
up there is your death-warrant : that's the one 
peach on the tree for you. Too high up for you 
to get ; but — well, you've got the right to look 
at it ! ' See now, missie, don't let my rough 
speech rile you. I'm not much at manners, but 
I mean well all the time, and never more so than 
this blessed " — " blessed " wasn't the word, but 
it will do — " moment, which is " — he jerked out 
his watch — " nearly seven minutes past six ; 
I'll remember it. You'll pardon me ? " 

" Why — why shouldn't you speak to me ? Oh, 
yes ; but I know." She blushed and frowned. 
" You— my uncle has told me about you, Mr. 

" That so ? " he said, evidently discomfited. 
" Reckon the old man didn't give me much of a 
character ; he couldn't, unless he was Ananias. 
—Here, Julie, and you, Amelia Ann, run off to 
the store and get some goodies ; and you might 
comb your hair, Julie, if you've time." 

•The two mites clutched the dollar, but stood 
on his boots and held up their heads expectantly. 
He kissed them, shamefacedly, and as they 
trotted off jNJaudie remarked : — 

*' You are fond of children, Mr. L'Estrange ? " 

It was unwise of her to give him an "oppor- 
tunity ; for, of course, he seized it, and walked 
on by her side. 

"That's so," he admitted. "Was a child 
myself once, if I can get you to believe it. And 
a dev — I mean, a poor time I had of it I Mother 
died young ; father — we'll let the old man rest, 
for he was my dad, though he forgot it. I grew 
up alone ; no brothers, no sisters — which is 
worse. If I'd had But here I am, dis- 
tressing your ear by yarning about myself, when 
I want all the time to talk about you." 

" There is nothing about me to talk about," 
said Maudie, amazed with herself for condescend- 
ing to hold open converse with such a man % 

" Oh, ain't there 1 " he exclaimed, confidently. 
" Why, the smallest particular — say, how do 
you cotton to these parts, missie ? Find it a 
bit strange and lonesome ; always thinking of 
the ' dear ones at home ' ? '* 

She blushed ; but he didn't know of Percy's 

" What I want to know is, have we done 
ourselves justice ? " 

" Justice I " echoed Maudie, significantly. 

He paused a moment, then caught her up. 
" That meant for me ? Well, it's got home ^11 
right — right here." He touched his breast with 
a great finger. " I know. I'm not fit to be 
walking with the likes of you. I'm aware of it, 
* That's so,' says you. ' Then why don't you 
clear ofi ? ' * Because,' says I, ' I'm on a new 
track.' Straight, missie. I struck it the moment 
I saw you in the window. Kind of a Catholic 
feeling : understand my meaning ? Sort of a 
saint in a shrine. I'm on the front bench at a 
revival camp. Converted, that's the word. 
Take me ? If you don't, let me have another 
shy. I'm not good at expressing myself." 

" I think you are doing very well," said 
Maudie, blushing.- . f rQm 





" Good I " he said, with frank pleasure. " I'm 
going to keep on this track; Vm up on the 
front seat of the teetotal \vagon and driving 
straight for H — I mean for the sober and 
industrious. You don't issue the confidence 
ticket ? Well. youU see 1 JP 

" I — I am not interested.' 1 stammered 
Maudie ; it was a story, for she had never in 
her life been so interested. 

" No ? " he said, humbly. |[ That's all 
right- But I'm crammed up with interest in 
you. missic. See now, if some fine afternoon I 
drive the buggy up to the bank, do you think 
Uncle Bet\ — oh, yes, I*vc always called him 
Uncle Ben- and yourself would come out to 
the ranch and have tea ? I've got some 
steers and a horse or two t he re that Id like 
to $how you ; there may be a better run of 
cattle in the locality, but I've not seen them," , 

By this time the populace of Johnson ville had 
fully awakened to the fact that the Terror was 
walking peaceably with the banker's niece- 
Mrs* Fletcher was at her window— and the 
populace displayed a marked interest in. this 
fact, until Jack, suddenly made aware of this 
interest, looked round about him with a tighten- 
ing of the lips and a flash of the eye ; at which 

Digitized by \jOOS IC 


signs of displeasure the curious spectators i ; 
once averted their eyes from the ill-assorte . 
pair and hurried out of Jack's range. 

Maudie and he strolled as iar as the stop . 
in which she sought refuge f not so much fron 
her companion as from the confusion caused b 
a completely new set of impressions and reflc 
tions to match 5!ie had to confess that U 



? F 



1 error bulked largely in her mind, just as he had 
done in the street. His was a personality which 
loomed so largely as to blot out the rest of the 
perspective ; bis very voice had a compelling 
quality, and his smile — I've an idea that it. was 
the Terror's smile, above all his other qualities, 
which " fetched A the gentle Maudie. 

It is scarcely necessary to state that the next 
afternoon, being ;< fine, Jack drove a highly- 
mettled pair, harnessed to a perilously light 
buggy, to the door of the bank, and that Uncle 
Ben — with much misgiving of the social effect 
of this precipitate friendship of his niece and 
himself with the Terror — accompanied by Maudie, 
climbed into the vehicle. 

" Well, we're right," said Jack, his eyes 
sparkling. " Now I'm going to make a little 
round of it : plenty of time, Uncle Ben : we 
ought to show missie the country : God's own, 
as we say ; though it strikes me tliat if it was 
He'd precious soon clear out some folks I could 
mention. Now, missie," he said, bending coax- 
in gly over her as she sat, necessarily, close to 
liira, " I'm going to let this pair out. You like 
tra veiling fast? That so? Well, fast it is!" 
So fast it became that presently Maudie was 
holding her breath. " Not skecred ? " he asked, 
gently. " That's right ! If you feel as if you'd 
like to hold on to anything, just grip my arnt ; 
grip it tight, and I'll slacken 'em up." 

" It's — it's quite safe, I suppose ? " she ven- 
tured, as the buggy, coming in contact with a 
boulder, sprang like a grasshopper. 

" Never safer since you were in your cradle," 
he responded, so convincingly that Maudie 
smiled up at him. 

Girls ought to be told that it, is dangerous to 
smile at a man who*is desperately in love with 
them. The effect of Maudie 's smile was to send 
Jack's columnar arm round her waist. She 
shrank a little — only a little, be it noted — and 
he murmured something about putting the 
cushion comfortable ; but after the cushion was 
arranged his arm remained, just touching her 
supportingly. The fiery pair, now thoroughly 
warmed, pulled up at the door of the house — 
its size and importance rather surprised Maudie — 
a number of " boys " dashed out from the 
stables, and the Terror led his guests" into the 
living-room. It was big and comfortable, and 
on the table was spread a feast fit for the gods. 
With a rough but reverent gallantry Jack seated 
Maudie at the head, where, waited on by a 
couple of middle-aged women, she queened it 
royally, prettily. It was evident, not only by 
the Terror's assiduous attention, but by the 
devoted service of the maids, that he wished her 
to realise that she was an honoured guest. 
Jack talked to Uncle Ben, but his fine eyes 
sought hers continually and every glance 
worshipped her. 

Maudie enjoyed herself ; Uncle Ben forgot 
the dubiosity of his host's character and grew 
comfortable. After tea Jack showed them over 
the stables and displayed the steers. They 
were pronounced by Uncle Ben as good as cattle 
could be. There was a tray of wine and biscuits 
before they started for home, and when they 

Digitized by GOOgle 

alighted at the bank Maudie -smiled again, as 
she very prettily thanked her host for a " most 
delightful afternoon." Jack showed his teeth. 
Hashed a long look into the depth of her blue 
eyes, and drove off in a manner which cleared 
the streets as effectually as a rain-storm could 
have done. 

Day followed day, and on every one of them 
Maudie met the Terror : he was always sober, 
at which fact " all the world wondered." Maudie 
was no longer bored ; Johnsonville * became 
interesting, life enjoyable. Once, driving past 
the ranch with Uncle Ben, she caught sight of 
Mr. L'Estrangc working in one of the fields near 
the highway. The banker rubbed his chin and 
murmured, thoughtfully : — 

" Ahem ! Hope it will last." 

To this pious aspiration Maudie made no 
response. She waved her hand to the newly- 
industrious husbandman, and he, wiping the 
sweat of honest and unaccustomed toil from tyis 
brow, gazed after her gravely, but with a 
passionate longing in his eloquent eyes. 

When they reached home and ascended to 
the sitting-room a dapper young man rose from 
the sofa* It was Percy Smith. Maudie greeted 
him with a gasp and a cry — of delight, joy ? Or 
was it dismay ? 

" I thought I'd give you a little surprise- 
packet," he said, as he kissed her. " Fact is, 
I've had the ' flu,' particular bad kind of ' flu/ 
and the He^ids gave me a holiday. . Seemed to 
me a good idea to run over and see you, 'specially 
as the office paid the exes. Glad to see me, 
Maudie, eh ? " 

" Oh, very glad, Percy ! " she responded, with 
appropriate promptitude and warmth. 

But — er — was she glad ? She wasn't quite 
sure. Percy seemed altered. And yet he wasn't. 
He had always been somewhat sallow, his nose 
had been upturned when she had. last seen it, 
the eyes as watery as now. But, at any rate, 
surely he had grown shorter ? He looked to 
tier — well, insignificant. Instinctively there 
flashed before her mental vision the gigantic 
but lithe and supple figure of — of another man ; 
in her ears echoed, conflictingly, contrastingly 
with Percy's thin and somewhat shrill note, 
the full, rich tones of another voice. She thrust 
from her the invidious comparison she was 
making ; she was ashamed of herself ; and she 
strove to display the affection she felt — I mean, 
she ought to have felt— for the man to whom 
she was engaged. There was nothing lacking in 
Uncle Ben's welcome ; indeed, for the first few 
hours the two men talked Stock Exchange and 
banking with an absorption for which Maudie, 
half unconsciously, was grateful. 

Percy was not favourably impressed by 
Johnsonville or its inhabitants, and — said so, 

"It's a one-hoss place, as they say over 
here," he remarked, slightingly. " You'll be 
glad to get back to Tooting. Maudie. And I've 
good news for you. I'm doing well at the office, 
and I shouldn't be surprised if I get another 
rise before long. If I do — and it's big enough," 
he put in cautiouslv, " you can come home and 

* \-TIT_li rlGM P-_J I 




be married. I suppose your uncle would fork 
out enough for your fare — he might tip, us some 
ready in the shape of a wedding present ; you 
could give him a hint, just a hint, but plain, you 

, Maudie 's fair face flushed, but she said nothing. 
After all, Percy didn't understand that she 
couldn't do anything of the kind ; but it was 
rather — mean of him to make such a sug- 

They were walking up the street when Percy 
made this admirably economic suggestion, and 
suddenly Maudie blushed again ; this time 
hotly ; for coming towards them was the Terror, 
mourited on his fiery steed and followed by half- 
a-dozen dogs. 

" Good Lord I " ejaculated Percy, eyeing with 
disgust the picturesque and masterful figure as 
the Terror swept off his sombrero. " Who and 
what's that ? Looks as if he'd slipped out of a 
' movie,' Knows you, too 1 " 

" His name's L'Estrange," replied Maudie, 
rather coldly, for Percy's contemptuous tone 
did not please her ; in fact, she resented it. 
*' He is one of the ranchers. Yes ; but he wears 
the proper clothes, and he — he is quite a nice 
man." Oh, Maudie, whither has fled the influence 
of holy Tooting ? 

"Looks like a cowboy," said Percy, un- 
necessarily uplifting his nose. " Thought that 
sort of thing was out of date, or confined to the 
wilds. As I was sayin', we could go into rooms 
for a time. I know of some we could get for 
thirty bob a week," and so on. 

Later in the day Maudie, glad of an excuse 
for going out by herself, was making for the 
store to " match a ribbpn, " when she ran against 
Mr. L'Estrange. He lost no time. . 

" Say, missie," he said, as he held her hand in 
his huge grip, " who was the young galoot I saw 
you with this morning ? " 

Maudie coloured, and her eyes dropped before 
his ardent and somewhat anxious gaze. 

" That— that was Mr. Percy Smith," she said. 

" Well, Percy looks as if a little fresh air would 
do him good," drawled Jack. 

" lie's — he's my fianci," faltered Maudie, to 
stop any further disparaging remarks. 

" Your Say, just whisper it again," said 

Jack, puzzled. " Your — what ? " 

14 I'm engaged to him," she said, in a low 

He did hot start, but he stood as if he were 
turned to stone, and gazed so strangely into her 
eyes that Maudie closed them for a moment. 
When she opened them he was half across the 
street. He had gone without a word. 

That night the Terror descended on the 
respectable and rising town of Johnsonville and 
painted it a vivid red. It was a night to be 
remembered for many a year. Three men- 
strangers, be it admitted- happening to disagree 
with Jack's remark that women were a mistake, 
had been carried to the infirmary, and Scufnns, 
the bar-keeper, had dispatched a large order for • 
new glasses to replace those which had met with 
sudden destruction at the hands, or whip, of 
the Terror. For several days and nights Mr. 

Digitized by VjOOQIC 

L'Estrange continued on the jamboree, so that 
men went, like Agag, delicately in his presence, 
women regarded him pityingly, and the children 
who loved him wept for "him. 

" Tut, tut ! Jack L'Estrange has broken out 
again. 'I was afraid he would," Uncle Ben 
remarked, after or visit from the Terror— a visit 
of business, short and unprofitable ; for Jack 
had drawn out his balance for the purposes of 
the aforesaid jamboree. 

" I suppose the police will deal with him," 
observed Percy, with so marked a contempt 
and superiority that Maudie — who had been 
rather pale and silent during the days of the 
reign of terror — f^lt her heart grow warm with 
indignation : perhaps she knew, or guessed, the 
cause of Mr. L'Estrange 's outburst I Who 
knows what a girl knows 4 and guesses ? And 
it's well we don't I 

" Police ? " echoed Uncle Ben, with an 
apologetic little cough. " I'm afraid the police 
would not interfere unless they were obliged. x 
You see, the young man is very — popular, and — 
er — it would be difficult to arrest him. Whep 
he's sober he is a most — er — prepossessing .young 
man." . 

" He seems to me a drunken beast and bully, 
who ought tobequodded. But it's no business 
of ours. Maudie, it's time you got your things 
on, if we're going for this walk." 

She slipped out of the room, and while she 
was tying on her veil She found it necessary to 
lift it two or three times ; because you can't 
wipe your eyes with a veil on ; at least, I 
believe not. 

They were going to a favourite , beauty spot 
a couple of mile^from the town, a secluded little 
valley at the foot of the hills, and during their 
progress Percy dwelt persistently on the un- 
wisdom of taking the matrimonial plunge until 
you were sure of your financial capacity for 
doing so ; also, that perhaps twenty-five shillings 
a week was nearer the mark than thirty bob for 
a couple of rooms in Brixton. Maudie listened, 
or pretended to listen, and Mr. ' Percy Smith 
was quite satisfied with her absent-minded 
"Yes, dear, " "No, dear," "Certainly, Percy, 
I agree with you." 

They reached the valley. Maudie sank on to 
a mossy boulder : she felt tired, depressed ; 
and she avoided looking at her fianci, who 
squatted at her feet, his thin shanks clasped in 
liis hands ; and while he regarded the scenery 
with dissatisfaction in his watery eyes he still 
droned on about lodgings, landladies, the destruc- 
tion of linen wrought by laundries, and the 
shortcomings of his fellow-clerks. 

Presently Maudie began to cry ;. that is to 
say, a tear rolled down her cheek and she 
struggled with a sob. Percy did not notice 
these indications of a distressful mind ; but 
another person did. 

For the Terror had come upon them suddenly. 
Ho stopped short, his tall figure overshadowing 
them ; he was sober — or nearly so ; and, as a 
stern moralist, 1 rejret to say that he did not 
look worn or haggrrd; for his splendid physique 
could stai?,d even a mors prolonged jamboree 




■ a.Lii he had permitted himself. Maudte looked 
i:p at him and uttered a faint exclamation. 

As if in answer to it, the Terror demauded, 
1 What are you crying for t mbsie ? " 

"I'm not crying,*' she declared, in a broken 

Disregarding this example of feminine men- 
dacity, the Terror looked down, at Percy, who 
was blinking up at him disapprovingly. 

M What have you been saying to her, doing 
to her ? " asked Jack, with an ominous calmness, 
'* Say, she's too good for you* Why, you galoot, 
I wonder you dared ! M 

Percy stared at him uticomprehcndiugly'; but 
Maudic understood, and her face flamed ;. for 
the frank scoru of the pigmy made her ashamed 
of him— and herself, 

" See here/' continued the Terror, his lips 
tightening, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Von 
and me have got to settle this. You've gnt the 
sweetest peach, the loveliest girl in the world — 
how you corralled her, God only knows : I'll 

by UOOglC 

bet she don't ! And I reckon she don't want 
you, And I want her -want her worse than 
I've ever wanted anything on this earth. Got 
that ? Well," he drawled, " we've got to settle 
it. Say, I'll shoot you for her I " 

Percy recoiled, his weak mouth gaping widely. 
Ins eyes bulging. The Teiror smiled grimly. 

" Oh, I don't mean to kill you \ Why should 
I ? No, 1*11 shoot at a mark with you. See 
that dead branch ? The man who breaks it at 
the first shot gets her. How does that strike 
you ? " 

It appeared to strike Percy with horror, and 
he shrank away from the revolver which Jack 
had trustfully laid on the boulder. 

" No ? Proposal declined ? Can*t shoot ? 
Well, say, you're difficult to please.'' He 
thought a moment, his reflective eyes dwelling 
on the girl's beautiful, and now quite white, face, 
u Anything to propose ? Anything you fancy ? M 

" I— I don't know what you're tat kin' about," 
stammered If^ginaffrxiriVrF JS P you're drunk/* 






" Not me, pard," responded the Terror, with 
great seriousness. " I'm painful I y sober l that's 
the trouble. Let me have another shy. We've 
got to fix this up here and now/* He took a 
pack of tarda from his pocket and shuffled them 
with ease and grace, " See, galoot, I'll cut 
you : the highest wins. Howl] that suit your 
taste ? ,J 

Percy mse unsteadily and shook his head. 
Then the Terror's temper, held in leash until 
now, )>roke away. His hand fell like a sledge- 

ind ten like a sledge 

by GoOglC 

hammer on Percy's shoulder, and his voice was 
a growl " Cut ! " he said, sternly. 

Man die rose, trembling — with indignation, she 
tried to believe. 

" How — how dare you ! f> she Rasped. 

" Rest easy, miHsie, " said Jack, his voice now 
as gentle as a sucking dove* H In a sense, so 
to speak, and as it were, you're not on in thia 
deal. The game's for us two. 1 ^aw you 
crying," lie added, with a primeval simplicity 
which was F^^lffSl^^r-n Sne hun 8 "w **€^d 




and stood silent, her hands gripping each other 
spasmodically. " You ain't going to tell me 
you care for this — man ? " he said. " I reckon 
you didn't know what you was doing when you 
took him on ; pVaps it was pity. I've heard of 
such cases ; women act that wjiy sometimes.- 
But I'll treat him fair ; he shall have his chance. 
And if you think I hold you lightly because I 
set you up as a stake, so to speak, as it were — 
well, you're wrong. Yes, he shall have his 

He gave the cards another shuffle and planked 
them on the boulder between the unhappy pair. 

" Cut, galoot ! " 

Percy looked at Maudie, blinked at the face 
glowering down at him, looked everywhere, in 
fact ; then, with an uneasy, terrified laugh, he 
stammered : — 

" This — this is ridiculous, but " — hastily, as 
the Terror made a movement — " if you insist, 
and — and Maudie doesn't mind " 

With a shaky hand he cut the cards ; Jack 
did likewise. Both men showed up. The 
Terror displayed a queen, Percy held an ace. 

" I've — I've won 1 " he cried, with nervous 

" Ace counts as one in cutting, pard," said 
Jack, gravely. 

Percy opened his mouth to protest, to argue ; 
but the Terror cut him short. " Cut agen," he 
said, gravely. m " We'll count the ace as highest." 

They cut again ; Jack showed a king. 
Maudie's heart stood still. J5he leant forward, 
her eyes fixed on the cards, on Percy's raised 
hand hovering shakily over the remainder of 
the pack. His flickering fingers touched the 
pack, then he cut, and displayed — the same 
ace 1 In that supreme moment Maudie knew — 
by instinct only, or had she seen him bend the 
corner of the card as he replaced it the first 
time ? — that he had cheated. I do not know ; 
no one will ever know. 

There was an intense silence. Jack had gone 
white under his tan ; he drew a long breath, as 
if it were his last, then with a grave courtesy he 
nodded to the winner. 

"The luck's yours, pard," he said, grimly. 
"Try and act up to it." Then he looked at 
Maudie, and all his soul was, in his sorrowful 
eyes. " Good-bye, missie," he said, in a very 
low voice ; indeed, jit was a mere whisper. " The 
cards knew I wasn't good enough for you." 

He was turning away, with a sweep ef his 
sombrero, when a most extraordinary thing 
happened ; for Maudie — oh, where was the 
propriety of Tooting ; where the suburban 
modesty on which, justly, she had always prided 
herself ? — threw herself on his breast and, cling- 
ing to him as a drowning man clings to a rock, 
sobbed out : — 

" No, no ! Don't — don't leave me ! I — I 
couldn't bear it ! " 

With shame, with an abandon of passion, she 
raised her face to his ; then, as his lips refused to 
meet hers — for the Terror had his own code of 
honour : a peculiar one, no doubt — she hid her 
face against his breast and sobbed. 

He looked down at her with infinite tender- 
ness, and his big hand smoothed her golden hair 
soothingly ; then ho looked at Percy. 

" The call's yours," he said, gravely. 

Percy's response was what might 'have been 
expected of him. 

" Oh, don't appeal to tne ! " he said, peevishly. 
"It's pretty plain what she wants. And — and I 
don't rnind sayin' that — yes, I'm well rid of 
her. She's behaved disgracefully." 

Jack waited until the disgusted — but relieved ? 
— rejected one had flounced off ; then the Terror 
caught Maudie up in his arms, held her on high, 
as if she were a bundle of straw, laughed up at 
her, then lowered her and kissed her until, 
exhausted, trembling, she sank, all aglow with 
"happiness, into the haven of his encircling 

Now, Percy, for once, had been right. Ac- 
cording to all the canons of respectability which 
should serve as the guide to true maidenly 
conduct, Maudie had behaved disgracefully; 
and, as the stern moralist I have already declared 
myself, I ougmVto record with satisfaction the 
fact that she was unhappy ever afterwards. 
But, alas I I have to set it down that the happiest 
wife in Johnsonville is the lady whose chief 
pride it is to call Jack L'Estrange " husband " ; 
that he did not beat or otherwise ill-treat 
her ; and, in short, that he is a thoroughly 
reformed and prosperous person and no longer a 

And doubtless, therefore, not nearly stf 
interesting to Johnsonville, however much so 
he may be to his admiring wife and adoring 
children ; in fact, to be candid, Johnsonville 
rather misses its Terror. 

Do you remember "The Blue Lagoon"? 

If so, you will be delighted to hear that H. de Vere Stacpoole's 
new serial — another fascinating romance of island life— will begin in 
next month's "Strand." 

by Google 

Original from 

Can mlSaw " 


The following most interesting and instructive article has been suggested 
by a perusal of M Present- Day Applications of Psychology/' by Charles S. 

Myers, F.R,S. (Methuen. Price Is.) 


E E D L K S S movement means 
waste of time and energy. That 
fact will be apparent to anyone 
who const 3ers for a moment 
ways and means of saving time. 
Ruminate^ needless movement 
from your daily routine, in 
business or in the hpme, and 
it mathematically follows tliat you save energy 
aucT prevent unnecessary fatigue, resulting in 
an improvement of mental or physical labour 
arid a fuller enjoyment of leisure. 

Psychologists have long recognised the value 
of this simple reasoning. They advocate what 
is technically known as " motion-study, " i^e. r 
the application of shorthand methods to our 
everyday lile, by which time and energy 

can be saved. 
Every day we 
repeat unneces- 
sary movements. 
To cite a co mm on 
case. A foun- 
tain-pen is a very 
useful and time- 
saving imple* 
meut. When a 
man, however, 
habitually keeps 
it in his pocket 
while in his othce. 
taking it out and 
removing the cap 
each time he 
wishes to sign a 
letter or other 
document, and 
then returning 
the pen to his 
pocket, he loses 
ats value as a 
time - and - 
twelve men who 
observation are in 
And yet it is only 


trouble -saver. Ten out of 

came under the writers 

the habit of doing this. 

necessary to leave the fountain-pen on the 

desk ready to pick up to gain full advantage of 

its usefulness. 

Again, take a woman knitting. How many 
adopt the simple plan of placing their ball of 
wool in a small carboard box, and of passing 
the wool through a hole in the lid, so that it 

runs and unwinds easily as the knitting of the 
article progresses ? The common and moat 
popular way with the laches is to place the ball 
of wool oa their lap, or on a table near by, 
with the consequence that each time the wool 
from the ball to the needles becomes -„taut. 
they have to take one hand away from the 
knitting to turn the ball* over, or to pull the 
wool, so that more is unwound. If this is not 
done, the pulling, as the knitting proceeds, 
causes the ball to roll by a series of jerks off the 
lap or table, resulting in more lost time and 
perhaps in a gentle word of reproof if the bail 
rolls out of reach, and maybe wraps the wool 
round the leg of the table. 

These everyday habits, merely arising from 
thoughtless lack of method, are good illustra- 
tions of the 
needless move- 
ments which we 
practise, and 
although, i n 
themselves, they 
may appear 
simple and un- 
important, it 
naturally folio ivs 
that people who 
are content to 
waste time and 
energy in such 
small things are 
not likely to 
save it in more 
important mat- 

A striking les- 
son in the art 
of time - saving 
w-as once af- 
forded by a well- 
known actor, 
whom the writer watched ma king-up and chang- 
ing for the various acts in a popular musical 
play. The time occupied in several changes 
was from two to three minutes, during which 
time clothes, lx>ots P hat, wig, and appearance 
of face were changed and altered. This was 
done, however, without the slightest hustle 
or bustle. Each movement, was made, a*; it 
were p to the- tick, ef the clock, By merely 
stretching th'Bfl ' HaTid£ J Hire or there, the actor 








\]tl hi* d reiser win able to pick up the various 
articles ot at tin? required almost without looking, 
and the same remark applied to the handling 
of grease-paints and cosmetics* 

Explain in g the celerity ot his changes, the 
actor said that much was due to the expediency 
of his dresser* who, however, he had trained ou 
the time -saving principles he had practised 
for many years. "If I did not have every 
article to my hand/' he said, " and know exactly 

the best use to 
make of it in the 
shortest possible 
time, I could not 
effect my changes 
without unneces- 
sary wo rry , hurry f 
and fatigue, not 
to mention the 
danger of things 
going wrong. As 
it is, I can change 
and make-up 
<luitc leisurely 
and calmly, al- 
though to you I 
may seem to be 
working at top 

One of the 
secrets of time- 
saving is not only 
to have proper 
materials for 
what you want to 
do, but to always 
nave them conveniently at hand, so that they may 
l>e made use of in the easiest and quickest pos- 
sible manner. Many a man begins the day by 
wasting time over his shaving, washing, and dress- 
ing. He will idle away a few minutes waiting for 
his shaving water to lie brought to him ; or, if 
lie is one of those individuals who must wait on 
himself, will journey to and from the kitchen, 
whereas a small gas-ring would enable him to 
heat the water in the bedroom while lie stropped 
his rajcor and got brush and soap read)'. 

Probably he will sit on the side of the bath 
and watch it Jill, instead of turning the water 
on while shaving, thus saving time, Or lie will 
keep his collars, shirts, socks, hand kerchiefs, 
and other necessary articles of attire in various 
separate drawers and compartments oi dressing* 
table, wardrobe, and cupboard, with the result 
that he is continually moving backwards and 
forwards owning this and shutting that, until 
dressing becomes a wearisome business instead 
of a pleasure. 

Personal habits and customs vary, of course, 
but it is probably no exaggeration to say thaty 
if the majority of men wrote down in detail 
the movements they made while dressing, they 
could, after careful examination, not only cross 
half of them out as need I ens. but so simplify 
the morning operation that it would not occupy 
half the time as hitherto. 

These, however, are only homely examples 
of what can be doi^c by* applying the same 



principles to industry and commerce. The 
Employer who will get the best results from Ids 
business, and the best mental and physicjd 
kibour and co-operation from his workpeople, 
is the one who makes a very careful observation 
of the movements used in the operations of his 
business, with a view to improving the output 
while saving the workers fatigue. 

The art of suiting each task with its appro- 
priate physical action is illustrated by the 
method lately 

adopted at Mel- r-". ■■;;/* " * »^^vvv , v rt | 
chet Court estate, 
near ttomsey, 
Hants, where 
land girls are 
being taught 
farming by 
rhythmic actions. 
They are taught, 
among other 
things, to plant 
cabbages by num- 
bers — in five 

The first action 
Is to put the left 
foot forward* the 
girl being then in 
a stooping pos- 
ture ; the second 
is to drive a hole 
in the soil with a 
dibber ; the third 
is to put in the 
plant with the other hand ; the fourth is to earth 
it with the dibber; and the fifth to bring the right 
foot forward and heel the plant in. 

So precisely are the live actions done that 
the right foot always comes to the exact place 
for heeling in the plant and the girl is able to 
step out in number-one action again without 
breaking the rhythm, By this system a girl 
can plant five thousand cabbage plants a dsiy 
without the fatigue which would otherwise l>e 
caused by constant and needless bending move- 

Another remarkable illustration of the value 
of saving time and energy expended on needless 
movement is mentioned by Charles S. Myers, 
the well-known psychologist, in his work. 
[* Present -Day Applications of Psychology/' 
An American named Gilbreth made a systematic 
study of the conditions of bricklaying, winch 
resulted in the reduction of the number of 
separate movements invoked from eighteen 
to five j and a great saving in time and labour. 

By the new method, thirty men were able 
to lay as many bricks as about a hundred men, 
with the expenditure of less fatigue and the 
receipt of much higher wages. The saving 
was effected in three ways. In the first place 
the enormous waste of bodily energy involved 
in .stepping towards and away from the pile 
of bricks and mortar, and of stooping to 
pick up each brick and trow elf ul of mortar, 
was avoided by placing the materials close to 
the workmanWrigfrki^J fmm t the bricks were 


4 8 





arranged by a less skilled workman, so that the 
best facing of all the bricks lay in the same 
direction. Thus the turning over in his hand 
by the bricklayer of each bnck, in order to find 
the best face, became unnecessary* 

The workmen were also instructed to substi- 
tute for the taps of the trowel on each brick as 
it was laid a slight hand -pressure (in order 
to obtain the proper thickness of the layer of 
mortar), Economy was also secured by the 

man picking up 
the brick and the 
trowel in hk left 
and right hand 
instead of succes- 

By reducing 
the movements 
involved in fold' 
# ing cotton cloth 
four hundred 
dozen pieces were 
folded in place 
of one hundred 
and twenty -five 
dozen, without 
increase of 

The import- 
ance of these 
principles when 
applied to manual 
labour* particu- 
larly in regard to the use of proper implements, 
is emphasized by an experiment which was tried 
with five hundred shovellers* These were cm- 
ployed in shovelling, with a shovel of constant 
size, material of varying weight — sometimes coal, 
sometimes ashes, and at other times heavy ore- 

HH Experiments/' says Mr. Myers, in his refer- 
ence to the case, "were conducted with shovels 
of different sizes in order to ascertaJta the 
optimal weight per shovel load for a good 
shoveller. The best average weight was found 
to be twenty-one pounds. Accordingly shovels 
were made of different sizes, in proportion 
to the heaviness of the material shovelled, 
so that each shovel, whether full of coal, ash, 
or iron, etc., weighed twenty -one pounds. 

* The results. were as follows r (1} The average' 
amount shovelled per day r<sse by nearly two 
hundred and seventy per Cent, — from sixteen 
to fifty -nine tons per man, (2} One hundred 
and fifty men could now perform what live 
hundred had performed under previous condi- 
tions. (3) The average earnings of the shovellers 
increased by sixty per cent* (4) The cost to the 
management, after paying aU extra expenses! was 
reduced by fifty per cent. And (5) there was no 
evidence of increased fatigue in the shovellers/' 

Motion study* however, when applied to 
industrial concerns, needs to be supplemented 
by the arousaj of interest among the emptoyis 
and by the introduction of proper periods of 
rest to avoid undue fatigue. The monotony pro- 
duced by standardized habits of movement must 

"waste of bodily energy 
WAS AVOIDED by placing 

workman's grasp/' ■ 

be corrected by encouraging the workers to be 
ever 00 the alert to suggest further improve- 
ments of method and by permitting them to 
share in the profits accruing from such increased 
efficiency; As regards the value of proper 
periods of rest, Mr. Myers writes : — 

" An instance occurred recently in a surgical - 
dressing factory* where women were engaged 
as yarn-spinners, an occupation requiring much 
dexterity and the constant repairing of broken 
threads. The 
daily hours of 
work were ten— 
namely, from six 
to eight, eight- 
thirty to twelve- 
thirty, one -thirty 
to n ve-t hirt y , and 
in addition to 
these ten hours, 
.overtime was 
worked from 6 to 
8 p.m. Among 
these yarn wind- 
ers was an un- 
married woman 
of thirty - two, 
who claimed that 
by not working 
before breakfast 
(from 6toSa,m-) 
and by refusing 
to work overtime 
(from 6to8 p.m.), 
she turned out 

more in the remaining eight hours than if she 
had worked the whole twelve hours. 

" Her claim was put to the test by comparing 
her monthly output during eight hours per day 
with that of three first-class hands working 
during the first fortnight at twelve hours per 
day and during the second fortnight at ten hours 
per day. Despite the fact that the short-timer 
stayed away the whole of one working day and 
three half -days during the month, her output 
of fifty-two thousand lour hundred and twenty- 
nine bobbins easily beat the average output of 
her three competitors* forty eight thousand five 
hundred and twenty- nine bobbins- 

M In thirty-two per cent. less hours of work 
she produced -eight per cent, more work. Further, 
the output of the three competitors was greater 
by more than, five per cent, during the second 
(as compared with the first) fortnight, when do 
overtime was being worked and the length of the 
working day was thus reduced by 1 6*6 per cent/ J 

These psychological experiments emphasize 
the necessity of making a very careful observa- 
tion of the movements and implements used 
in daily operations by anyone wishful of utilizing 
time to the -best advantage* Five minutes 
saved is five minutes gained* Waste of time 
in these strenuous days amounts almost to a 
crime, and it behoves everyone desirous of 
taking full advantage of their opportunities 
and capacities for work to economize in mental 
and muscular effort by applying motion-study 
to their particular business and circumstances. 



Illustrated By A. QifBert 


| HE Quartermaster of the Watch 
pushed aside the tarpaulin cover 
to the wardroom hatchway and 
whistled softly through his teeth. 
' i ^lail/ , he said to the officers* 
steward, who stepped out of the 
J. diminutive pantry in answer to 
the summons, and, bending 
down, thrust a bundle of sodden envelopes into 
the outstretched hand* It was snowing hard, 
and the whaler that brought o££ the destroyer's 
Christmas mail had shipped sufficient water to 
call for a muttered protest from beneath the 
sou J -wester of the stroke oar. 

" I don* mind wettin' my blinking shirt/' he 
muttered, as he tugged at the oar, u not so long 
as we brings 'ope an' comfort* But if them 
perishin J mail- bags is goin J to sit in a pool o' 
water — what the 'eil's the use ? No one can't 
read a letter wot's bin soaked in, the Norf Sea 
for a hour 1 JJ The whaler's crew murmured 

The Coxswain, nursing the mail-bags on his 
knee with a hand on each and his elbow on the 
tiller, bade the crew chuck their weight into their 
oars and mind their ensanguined business — what 
time he, the Coxswain, would mind his. This 
admirably adjusted division of labour brought 
them eventually alongside, and the mail inboard. 

The Surgeon Probationer, whose body was 
buried in the depths of a wicker armchair (with 
the exception of his feet, which were on top of the 
stove ; and his heart, which was in the keeping 
of the " Wren " driver of an Admiralty car), 
heard the whaler come alongside and was at the 
bottom of the hatchway as soon as the steward, 

**" Gimme the ruddy things," he muttered, 
hungrily, and awoke the partially gassed inmates 
of the wardroom with a joyous whoop. 

'* Mail I T * he shouted, and dealt the moist 
envelopes into the laps of the recumbent figures 
sleeping off the effects of a Christmas luncheon 
in various attitudes of statuesque abandon. 

The mess awoke bleary-eyed, and fumbled 
with its correspondence. One by one the forms 
sat upright ; grunts were succeeded by articulate 
expressions of approval. The Lieutenant {E), 
who sat nearest the bell, rose to his feet and 
prq^sed it fervently. Then he sat down again, 
ordered a drink, and slit open the first of four 
fat envelopes* It was from a favourite sister, 

VoL Itij. — 4. 

Digitized by V^OOQ I C 

aetat fourteen* who, having made up her feminine 
mind that Sir David Beatty's position in the 
naval cosmos was one that her brother would 
fill with more picturesque and efficient complete- 
ness, speedily surrounded that officer in a com- 
fortable aura of giggling self-complacency, # 

The Midshipman R.N,R* burst open a' bulging 

envelope and stepped straightway on to a magic 

* carpet, which rafted him out of the steel shell 

of a destroyer's wardroom ^nto a Berkshire 


The Sub sat on the settee with his legs in 
heavy leather sea -boots and his elbows on his 
knees reading a letter from a farm in Northamp- 
tonshire. The writer of the letter had spent the 
morning cleaning out a byre, and the early part 
of the afternoon sorting potatoes. She had then 
bathed and sat down in her prettiest cr£pe-de- 
Chine kimono and a mingled fragrance of China 
tea and bath salts to the composition of a letter 
that spread a slowly widening grin of ecstasy 
across the weather-beaten features of the 
recipient, who had almost forgotten what a 
woman's voice sounded like. 

The clouds of tobacco -smoke curled to and fro 
in the close atmosphere of the destroyer's ward- 
room, and the silence — save for the rustle of a 
quickly -turned page or the snicker of a knife 
opening a fresh envelope — was profound. Then 
the Surgeon Probationer chuckled hoarsely, It 
was a profane sound and passed unnoticed ; but 
presently he bent forward and thrust a gaudy 
.strip of pasteboard beneath the nose of the 
c n raptured Sub-lieutenant . 

" Call that nuffin 1 ? " he queried, coarsely. 

The Sub detached his soul with difficulty from 
the seventh heaven, and considered a highly- 
colourcd representation of a robin upon a snowy 
background* and the legend " Peace on earth 
and goodwill among men " picked out in frosted 
letters against a border of hclly leaves* 

M *Snice n , ain't it ? M said the Surgeon Pro- 

" Fair bit of all-right/* said the Sub, good- 
humourcdly, and resumed page seven of the 
closely scribbled sheets : — 

11 / am writing this by the firelight, and if only 
you were here we'd draw up our chairs close and 
pYaps " 

" My Aunt Agatha srnt it to me/' continued 
the voice of the importunist. f ' Read what's, 
written on the back/ 1 

Original fronr 

■ „«.,.„ wo'iiih.t i*j 'iq vivu r ^T'.HHHV 



The Sub, who was what is called a good mess- 
mate, turned the pasteboard over rather absent- 

" Love your enemies," was written in angular, 
spidery handwriting across the inoffensive surface 
of the card. The Sub was twenty, but he had 
known four years of warfare against the Powers 
of Evil, which we call Germany for short. 

" Any relation of Lansdowne or Ramsay 
Macdonald, your Aunt Agatha ? " he inquired, 
and tossed the card back, to return instantly to* 
a firelit twilight and " p'r'aps." 

The Surgeon looked round the mess in search 
of a fresh confidant. The First Lieutenant sat 
hunched up on his right, holding a bunch of 
sheets of paper clenched in his hand, and staring 
at the stove with unseeing eyes. 

" Here, Number One," said Aunt Agatha's 
nephew, and smote his neighbour on the knee. 
" You look as if you wanted brightening up. 
Read that, my lad 1 Both sides. Every picture 
tell* a story." 

The Lieutenant turned eyes like those of a 
startled horse upon the speaker. 

" Eh ? " he said. He too had come back a * 
long way to answer a living voice. 

" Read that, my pippin." 

The Lieutenant read obediently, turning the 
card backwards and forwards in his fingers as if 
looking for something that wasn't there. The 
crumpled sheets of his letter dropped to the 
deck and lay unheeded. 

Then abruptly he laughed ; it was not a laugh 
common to Englishmen, and so disconcerting 
was the sound that two or three faces lifted from 
the preoccupation of letter or illustrated paper, 
and tranquil eyds stared curiously. 

" My God ! " said the First Lieutenant. " That's 

the best joke — the best joke " His voice 

dropped low. He handed back the Christmas- 
card and fumbled blindly for the fallen sheets 
of his letter. One by one he straightened them 
an his knees, smoothing out the creases 

" The best joke " He rose to his feet 

with something in his white face that jerked 
the .medical man instantly upright beside 

" Sit down," said the First Lieutenant, and 
there was a note in his voice the Doctor obeyed, 
because it was something he was still young 
enough to acknowledge. " Listen," said the 
Lieutenant, in hard, dry tones. " You've got 
to share this — you've all got to share this." 
Papers rustled and every eye was on the speaker. 
" It's— it's too good to keep to oneself. My 
brother " — he made a little gesture with the letter 
in his hand — " my brother was wounded — broken 
thigh — twenty miles behind the line in a base 
hospital — the Huns bombed it in broad daylight, 
with the Red Cross flying on every flagstaff 
and painted on every roof — bombed it in cold 
blood, and killed thirty-four wounded officers 
and men and two V.A.D/s. They killed my 

brother, and they killed " He thrust the 

letter into the limp hands of the Surgeon 
Probationer. " You gave me something to read 
just now. Read that ! They killed the whitest 

by VjC 


woman — she was trying to aavc him — with the 
Red Cross on her breast — and his thigh broken. 
Goodwill among men ! Love your enemies ! 
Love your " 

The Gunner came across the mess with his 
heavy tread, his stolid face full of concern. 

" No offence, I'm sure, sir," he said, glancing 
at the Surgeon. " Mr. Dantham didn't know — 
how could he ? Nor yet his aunt " 

The tragedy of one is the tragedy of all in a 
community as small and as intimate as a destroyer 
wardroom ; but the innate sense of justice in the 
Briton's heart found expression in the Gunner's 
inarticulate sympathy. He held no brief for 
the Hun, but he was the champion of the shocked 
Surgeon and Aunt Agatha for all her pacifist 

The Surgeon safe with the unread letter in Ins 
hands staring up at the First Lieutenant. 

" Oh ! " he said. " Oh, the^wine I " A growl 
of confirmation ran round the mess, but no one 
addressed the First Lieutenant, direct. 

" Yes," he said. '* Bestial swine. Brutal, 
bestial swine. If he'd been killed by the shell 
that, broke his leg I wouldn't have minded. 
That would have been fair fight ; and she — if it 
had been septic poisoning or disease ; those are 
the risks all nurses run : the enemies they\ face - 
and fight all day and night. But this!" He 
spoke in low, measured tones. " If I ever get to 

grips with a Hun after this " The mask of 

icy self-control slipped for a moment from his 
face. His features worked and his hands made 
a movement somehow suggestive and brutal. 

11 Best hav6 a drink," said the Gunner, 
soothingly, and as he spoke there was a trampling 
of men's feet overhead, muffled by the snow on 
the thin plating. The Quartermaster's pipe 
rippled and shrilled, to be succeeded by a hoarse 
sing-song bellow. "Boot and saddle" sounded 
in a cavalry barracks never stirred the stables as 
that rush of unseen feet overhead, breaking 
the peace of a Christmas afternoon in -harbour, 
galvanizing the wardroom into sudden activity. 

" Stand by to slip from the buoy," said the 
Gunner, and made for the hatchway. But the 
First Lieutenant was before him, bareheaded, 
cramming his Christmas mail into his pocket as 
he swung himself up the iron rungs of the ladder. 

The Commander, who liad been standing 
peering through his glasses for' the last five 
minutes, lowered them suddenly and glanced at 
the chart clamped on the bracket beside him. 

His First Lieutenant continued to stare across 
the grey sea to the north-west. Day was dawning, 
and the spray," filing from the reefing bows of the 
destroyer, was like a frozen whip-lash on their 
faces. " Yes, that's them," he said, in a grimly 
ungrammatical undertone. To the naked eye 
nothing was visible above the ragged. skyline, 
but every man on the bridge was standing 
gazing intently in the same direction, as if the 
wind carried with it -the scent of the quarry they 

The Commander gave an order to the Signal- 
man standing attentive beside the daylight 




searchlight, and 
immc d i a t e 1 y 
the shutters 
broke into a 
"View halloa I" 

A blink an- 
swered on the 
instant, where, 
two cable*- 
astern, the 
second boat in 
the line fol- 
lowed in the 
heaving wake. 
Out of the faint 
haze of smoke 
that almost 
screened the 
rest o f the 
division from 
view, one after 
' the other the 
answers flick- 
ered, and then 
the leader 
s po ke . The 
lightsall blinked 
back together. 

'* 5 i g n a 1 
passed, sir ! " 
said the Yep- 

' Right" re- 
plied the Com- 
mander. He 
tent over the 
chart again for 
an instant, and, 
straighten i n g, 
gave an order 
to the wheel, 

The leader's bows leaped at a charging sea, 
rose shuddering, and fell away from the wind 
a couple of points ; the drone of the turbines 
below took on a different, highe^, note, The 
Commander turned and glanced along the upper 
deck with a iittle grim smile above the turns of 
his worsted muffler* The destroyer was stripped 
for the fight, and at tho midship and after guns 
the crews were blowing on their hands and jesting 
amongst themselves. The Gunner sat astride 
the torpedo tube glancing, along the sights as the 
twin tubes trained slowly round like pond er< jus 
accusing fingers*! 

" Your brother ain't going to be long 
unavenged," said the Commander to his First 
Lieutenant, as the latter climbed into the fire- 
■ ontrol position. " We've caught this party 
cold I IJ 

The First Lieutenant nodded, unsmiling, as he 
turned away; 

■" Weil sink the lot," he said, " But that's 
too good a death tor a Hun. Tke sea's too clean 

to drown 'em in- I'd " He checked the 

sentence and busied himself about his fire- 
control instruments 

but this I ■ 

£E SI'OKK m 

Then out of the north-west came a 

• l * lu 


light. It winked suspiciously, -and the Com- 
mander laughed, with his hand on the fire-gong 
key + 

' Thews my answer, Fritz. " he said, and 
before the words were out of his mouth the 
foremost gun opened fire* '* You*re dev'lish 
tfoud at raiding merchant convoys — let's see haw 
you take a hiding." The acrid cordite smoke, as 
his guns gave reply to the German challenge, 
caught him in the throat, and his words en tied 
in a cough. 

The German destroyers turned for home, held 
their course for eight hitter minutes, steaming 
helMor-leather and husbanding their ammuni- 
tion. Their instructions were peculiar, inasmuch 
as they were ordered to return at all costs to 
their base. In destroyer warfare the nation 
that holds command of the seas can afford to 
omit tins bitter clause from its light-craft's 
sailing orders ; but an Admiralty that knows it 
can send nothing to the succour of its disabled 
adventurers perforce plays for safety* 

The German flotilla leader, bending over his 
chart and stop-watch, deluged with spray from 
falling projectiles, .made a rapid mental calcu- 
lation and rra^M'Mlt' "tillS was no tip-and-ruo 




business. He had played that game twice and 
brought it off, and played it once too often. In 
golfing parlance, of which he was entirely 
ignorant/ he was stymied. 

He laid a smoke-screen, and turned under 
cover of it, avoided a long-distance torpedo by 
six feet» and applied himself to the voice-pipe 
connecting him with the engine-room. What he 
said to the tyond perspiring engineer at the 
other end does not concern this story, because 
a " browning " salvo at four miles' range struck 
his quivering fugitive command amidships, and 
beat her into a naming, smoking welter of flying 
fragments and spouting foam. 

His opponent saw things appearing above the 
smear of that hasty smoke-screen, things that 
leaped into view against the grey sky and 
descended again into invisibility. He lowered 
his glasses, glanced grinning at his First Lieu- 
tenant, and gave another order to the Quarter- 
master at the wheel. 

But the Quartermaster was seized with a sudden 
preoccupation. He was leaning back against 
a stanchion with the broken spokes of the wheel 
still in his hands and looking with stupefied 
amazement at the pulsating jet squirting from 
his ttagh. 

/'Piftnd steering-gear ! " bawled the Commander, 
striving to dominate the din of the action with 
a mechanical shout. He jumped the body of fc 
the Yeoman of Signals, sprawled bloodily across 
the head of the ladder, and stumbled blindly 
down the iron rungs. 

" Give 'em hell, Number One ! " he shouted, 
and caught a glimpse of his Second-in-Command's 
head and shoulders above the rent and tattered 
splinter-mats. " The blighters have got our 
range," he muttered, and as he reached the 
upper deck he saw another torpedo hurtle from 
the tube and vanish in a cloud of spray. 

"Keep it going, boys! "he shouted, as he 
passed the midship gun. " Give it to 'em hot 
and strong 1 " 

The gun-iayer turned from the eye-piece as 
he passed and grinned as the smoking breech 
clanged open. His jumper and jersey were rent 
from shoulder to hip, and he stanched a 
wound with cotton-waste while the loader 
slammed a fresh cartridge home. The destroyer, 
temporarily out of control, fell broadside on to 
the sea ; the waves leaped at them and sluiced 
knee-deep across the deck ere the Commander 
reached the after steering position and got the 
kicking hand-wheel manned. The wind carried 
the sound of cheering to the Commander's ears, 
and he glanced over his shoulder to see the rest 
of the division wheel and go crashing past his 
quarter in a cloud of spray and funnel smoke. 
The next astern had taken charge as the leader 
fell out of line. A burst of shrapnel whipped the 
after funnel into a colander, and the gunner 
rolled into the scuppers, clutched helplessly at 
a cleat, and slid into the embrace of a curling 
sea that folded its arms about him and carried 
him from sight. 

The Lieutenant (E) appeared on deck and 
clawed his way aft through clouds of steam. 

" Main steam-pipe, port engine-room's cut. 

Digitized by taOOglC 

sir," he shouted. *' Nine knots is the oest we'll 
get out of her-" He stared ruefully to leeward. 

The fight had swept away to the south, and 
the crippled leader followed, to pass presently 
across the battle's trail. Clinging to lifebuoys 
and scraps of German* wreckage were pitiful 
drenched human beings. Hands waved, white- 
faces appeared in the smooth flanks of the waves 
or vanished, smothered in their. breaking crests. 

The Commander jerked the telegraphs and 
surveyed his rolling deck. " Cease fire I " he 
bawled, satisfied himself that the battered 
whaler was still seaworthy, and gave the order, 
" Away lifeboat's crew I " 

They lowered £er, manned rj.y men still breath- 
less with the exultant flush of battle, some with 
hasty bandages about^them, and* to and fro they 
plied amid that tumbling sea and the unmanned 
foe calling for dear life at their rough hands. 
The destroyer turned to make a lee, and along 
her rail the ship's company gathered, with 
heaving-lines and lifebuoys. 

A wave passed surging down the ship's side, 
carrying on its crest the head and shoulders of 
a man. His face was ashen grey, and his hands 
grabbed ineffectually at the slipping coils of a 
rope's end thrown from the forecastle. He slid 
helplessly into* the trough of the sea, his eyes 
wide and terrified, staring at the rows of facc*> 
above him. * 

" 'Ere, Fritz," said a rough voice, " 'atig on!" 
and another rope jerked and fell with a splash 
beside him. Again the clutching hands went out. 
but his strength was gone. The white face fell 
forward — jerked r back, gasping and choking — 
the hands went up. 

" Gangway, you fools ! He'll drown 1 " Two 
able seamen, leaning over the side — one had 
escaped from a German prison camp six months 
previously, and was enjoying himself — were 
thrust apart ; a burly figure in socks, and divested 
of his reefer jacket, steadied himself with one 
hand on a davit while he measured the distance, 
and dived. 

" Number One i " gasped the incredulous 
Commander. " Don't tell me that's the First 
Lieutenant ? " 

" Yessir," said the wardroom steward, who 
had been passing up ammunition, with a cigar- 
ette behind his ear, and a hastily-collected 
gallery of lady-loves' photographs projecting 
from his breast-pocket. 

" Yessir." Adding, as one in the confidence 
of the wardroom : *' 'Im as lost 'is brother, 
bombed by them 'Uns. Actin' regardless, you 
might say." 

The First Lieutenant, treading water, was 
effecting a businesslike bowline under the arm- 
pits of the drowning * man, and avoiding his 
enfeebled embrace with considerable presence 
of mind. 

Finally the two were hauled inboard and the 
ship s company raised a cheer. 

" Shut up, will you 1 " spluttered the Fir->t 
Lieutenant, angrily, wringing the water from 
Ms sodden nether garments. He avoided the 
eye of his Commanding Officer. 

The ship's company, under direction of the 





h all 

Lialer, ladeij with 


rising and plunging 


minutes brought the Commander and his 
First Lieutenant face to i. 
" Funny lit I 

" Bali I " said the Lr then 

. " You waii 


Sparkles from "Life. 


We have on more than one occasion published selections of pictures from our 
lively American contemporary. Here are some more. 


now m bj: haI'PV j:\kr ajti:i 



oi.n mas roK.TH|r' lr AftMlf a 'oTSflS dau 


- V 




Strafklj U-boat Commander: "Dam 
der dam dek orations, anyway I * 


by boogie 

OF ORDNANCE, ^1 I y 1 1 I a I II '.U II 


■ ± t tt — ar 1 — ~ rn ^*~ 

5 6 


" I'M glad mv wife ais't here, she'd make 





FATHER OF Dauoiitkks i * f Unless you want me To avoid the odour of oniony peel them under 

to call the police, viui've got to stem] that piano I " water. 






PAX 1 1 1ST. 



by Google 

Original from ' 


Mstrated . jhf 
Obtn Pecffle 

DEL AIDE, the u)\der-hou;semaid 
at Belmont, was a . very shy, 
diffident girl; so much so that, 
dressing for her evening out, 
she blushed at the sight of her 
brilliant new hat. She felt that 
it she had been pretty it would 
have been easy enough to carry 
off such a hat ; but she wasn't pretty, like Edith* 
the parlourmaid, and she knew it. She was not 
grand and dashing like Mrs, Vaughaiij, the cook ; 
not elegant and grateful like Emily, the head- 
housemaid; not even black-haired and pale- 
faced, or full of fascinating sauce and Impudence, 
like Loo f the kitehenmaid. When chaffed she 
never had an answer ready* and if she thought 
of one afterwards she was too timid to go back 
Lud say it. 

She looked out of the window of "her attic 
bedroom and wondered if Lynd hurst, the small 
house on the other side of the road, would ever 
Jet again. It was beginning to have a shabby, 
war- battered aspect, in painful contrast to the 
genera] prosperity of Hill Road- Between the 
^ide walls of Lyndhurst 'and the villa next to it 
*hu had a line view of the clustering roofs of the 
suburb ; and further off she could see the open 
country, and the main iine of the South -Western 
Kailway, along which the troop trains had 

Copyright, 191 S, by 

already been running for nearly three years. 
Unseen, at the bottom of Hill Road, was the 
corner round which you plunged into traffic, 
gaiety, noise — trams and onini buses passing 
by ; the big public-houses, shops, cinema 
theatres ; life. It was at this corner that young 
men used to hang about, waiting for the young 
ladies of Hill Road on their evenings out, But 
no young man had ever waited there for Adelaide. 

Thinking of the corner, she felt almost too 
shy to face it— especially in, her new hat. But 
it was her evening out, and she had to go out. 
Presently she had sidled round the corner and 
was in the crowd of the big street* In spite of 
the hat nobody took' the least notice of her ; 
she might have been invisible ; and gradually 
she became less self-conscious and more capable 
of enjoying her promenade. By the tirno she 
had reached the third picture palace, and was 
standing outside it looking at the posters and 
the photographs, she had quite forgotten herself. 

u JOAN OF ARC, The film that aroused a 
nation." She stood gaping at the highly- 
coloured portrait of a young lady In armour on 
a white horse. ,f Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. 
Do not miss it. It has moved young and old on 
both sides of the Atlantic. You cannot see h\ 
and go away just the same; as you were before." 

What did tliat last bit mean ? Adelaide raised 
her gloved hand and felt her hat, with a return 
of uneasiness. And then the young soldier spoke 
to her* 

*' Going inside ?** 

" Beg pardon ? " said Adelaide, almost faint- 
ing from the suddenness of this surprise attack 

" I passed the remark, whether you were 
going in to see the show." 

" I wasn't intending," Adelaide gasped- 

44 No more was I, JJ said the soldier ; " that is. 
not alone. But I don't mind if you don't* Shall 

Adelaide was speechless. 

M Come on, then," said the soldier ; and he 
led her through the hall to the pay-box. 

" I got my purse," said Adelaide, finding her 
voice in the closeness of the danger, 

" I treat." 

" Oh, no— please." 

He had done it, paid for both : and next 
moment he was holding her iirmly by the ami. 
guiding her through the darkness, keeping her 
off many toes that she would otherwise hav^ 
martyrized, preventing her from sitting on a 
strange gentleman's lap, and finally depositing 
her in an unoccupied seat side by side with 
himself. Her heart was beating wildly, her 
thoughts were in. a whirl. fshe was out with a 
soldier, bong st<v>d treat to the pictures- 
Breathing fast, she peered towards the stage. 

It was the end of a prairie sketch. As usual, 





the slicri&- and his posse were arriving at a 
gallop. They released the man bound to the tree, 
and the lights went up ; and Adelaide saw tlu- 
Uosely packed audience, and stealthily glanced at 
her soldier, lie was sunburnt, young, fair-haired. 

14 War nougat/* said a brightly -dressed girl- 
attendant, coming along the gangway with a 
sunatl tray ot boxes. " War nougat. Nougat 
bits. Very sweet- Nice nutty flavour." 

" Here, miss/' said the soldier. " Give me a 
please. How much ? " 


* f Two shillings. Thank you," 

" Do y«u eat that stuff ? " asked Adelaide, 
determined to make conversation, 

" No, but I expect you do/' and he handed 
her the box of war sweets, 

" Oh, no, I couldn't think— I can't allow- 

11 Gammon- Don't be huffy about it. Why 
not ? I meant no offence/' 

And Adelaide, to her indescribable surprise, 
saw that he was blushing ; and a wonderful, 
but very comfortable, idea flashed into her 




min(i. Could it be possible that he was almost 
as shy by nature as she was ? 

"I'm not offended, " she hastened to assure 
Mm. " I think it's very kind of you, only " 

M That's all right, then," and he smiled at her.* 
* I'm on leave, I am. I saved up for it." 

The lights went down, and a brief, exhilarating 
interlude entitled ".The Runaway Motor-Car " 
was vividly presented. Adelaide sucked her 
sweets, and laughed at the runaway car until she 
nearly choked. When the lights went up again 
the soldier was wiping tears from his eyes. 

" I do like a laugh," he explained, as he slowly 
recovered his composure. " My name's Budd — 
Dick Budd. You haven't told me your name 

" My name's Cross — Ad'laide Cross," said 
Adelaide, carefully imitating the formula. 

"I'm out in France, with my battalion. The 
Sixteenth Battalion." 

" It's dreadful out there, isn't it ? " 

" No, it's right enough." 

" You say that, but I don't expect you mean 
it." • 

" O' course I do," and he looked hard at her, 
as though not understanding why she should 
doubt his word. 

" Were you always a soldier — I mean, before 
the war ? " 

" No, I was in a warehouse." 

Never in her life had Adelaide experienced 
such a sequence of pleasurable, sensations — 
delicious flutter of excitement, laughter, sucking 
sweets ; and now an unforced flow of conver- 
sation ; a swiftly evoked mysterious sympathy 
that made conipanionship joy, that destroyed 

" When it's aver what will you do — go back 
into business ? " 

" Not me, Ad'laide. No, I shall go out to the 

Then the lights went down again, and the 
piece of the evening began. 

One was introduced to a charming American* 
girl who had dressed for a fancy ball as Joan 
of Arc. In this costume she showed herself to 
her elder brother, a man of considerable position 
under the Government, who expressed admiration 
of the attractive costume by face and gesture, 
and finally asked her a simple question in large 
plain handwriting. 

" Who was Joan of Arc ? " 

No question could have been more opportune ; 
for most of the audience, including Adelaide, 
were anxious for full information on the point. 

The young lady replied to hira with a concise 
written statement ; and, time being permitted 
for it to soak into the audience, all became 
duly seized of the historical or traditional facts 
with regard to the Maid of Orleans. 

The elder brother immediately changed the 
conversation, becoming frowningly serious, and 
saying to his sister : — 

" The war is not going well. There are too 
many sleepers. I despair of waking them." 

Then, after the ball, the young lady went 
about America on a white horse with a banner, 
and woke the sleepers. Everybody flocked to the 

Digitized by GoOSk 

banner. The women as well as the men — both 
sexes could help. 

But this was not all. Next one saw her in 
the war itself. She had travelled with the horse, 
and on its back in France she did remark- 
able things. The generals trusted her more and 
more, ahd when they had given her full powers 
she fairly got the Huns on the run. But at 
length the routed commander-in-chief of the 
enemy by subterfuge captured her, and shot her 
as vengeance, while the. whole mob were hurry^ 
ing back to Berlin. Her last words flashed upon 
the -screen : — 

" I do not die in vain. Those I have awakened 
will not sleep until the work is done." 

Of course, the unrolling of this drama took a 
considerable time ; the film wag a long one ; 
intervals were allowed. During the intervals 
Adelaide talked volubly to her companion. Her 
face was flushed, her eyes glowed, her voice 
shook a little with emotion ; she had been carried 
completely out of herself. She was a different 
girl. But for the hat, her fellow-servants would 
not have recognized her if they /had seen her 
chattering to the soldier. 

" Dick, is it Uke that out there ? ". 

" Well, I can't exactly say I've seen such 
things myself. I've been mostly in Flanders 
and down by Arras. I don't quite, follow how 
she got up so far. Uke. Mostly the girls— you 
know, the ones in khaki as well as the nurses— 
aren't allowed not to come up beyond the. 
principal headquarters. I should have thought 
the military police would have stopped her." 

" But it was the generals invited her — to save 
the situation." 

" Ah." , 

" Dick. Tell me true. Where the girls do get 
to — are they ever under fire ? " 

" You bet. They get shelled proper now and 
again. Why, you'll see the nurses' names in the 
lists." ' 

" Then if a girl showed herseUE what Joan of 
Arc showed herself ! " 

Dick saw her home right up Hill Road to the 
gate of Belmont, where they lingered talking 
confidentially. 14 was a splendid summer night, 
and Adelaide looked up at the moonlit sky 
wondering if the fine atmospheric conditions 
would tempt Hun raiders. Instead of thinking 
about the coal -cellar* as a refuge, she imagined 
herself seated in a battle- 'plane high up there 
waiting to drive off the intruders. She felt like 
a sleeper awakened ; great thoughts stirred 
in her. 

M Ad'laide, you see I like you." 

" I like you, too, Dick." 

They promised to write to each other, and 
moved up the road a little way to exchange 
postal addresses that they scribbled in the 
shaded light by a lamp-post. 

" I shall come straight to see you next leave. 
I'd come again this leave, if I wasn't booked 
down home at Poole." 

" You mayn't find me here, Dick. But I'D 
write and tell you wherever I go to." 

" Promise — and kiss on your promise. I like 
you, Ad'laide^'- 

J Ungmal from 





iJ I like you, Dick. But, Dick. IshaVt never 
marry you unless I feel I'm worthy of you." 

'* Well, I haven't gone so far as to ask you 
that, have I ? " Then, as if struck by an uti- 
gallant turn, in these words, or as if suddenly 
making up his mind, he said, with firmness : 
" But, you know, I want for us to be engaged 

Adelaide answcreu not firmly of tone, for t lie re 
was a little break in her voice, but with a decision 
of purpose that was unmistakable : — 

" No* Dick, you go away from me free, an' 
you'll come back to me iree. Think of your duty 
first, an* me afterwards. An', an' remember my 
words* I sha'n't never en rise nt to marry you 
unless I feel in me own self I'm worthy of you*" 

As Adelaide said these and other astounding 
things, trifling with an offer that would have 
seemed fantastically advantageous a few hours 
ago, she looked upward to the summer sky. 
Tears had come to her eyes, and unconsciously 

T3igmze<fty ViUUgK. . 

she raised her hand, assuming the exact attitude 
of the film young lady during the delivery of 
that last speech: " Those I have awakened will 
not sleep until the work is done," 

" I s ha 'n't change my mind. Adlaidc." 

" Nor I mine. Good - bye , dear/' 

And they hugged and parted. 

With the feel of his lips still on her face, and 
the pressure of his arms still seeming 10 encircle 
her body, Adelaide stood by the kitchen table 
at Belmont and talked to her fellow-servant-,. 

*' 1 don't understand you/' said Mrs. Vaughan, 
the cook, loftily- 

" And 1 don't understand you" said Adelaide. 
" lint I begin to. There's many things in this 
house wants understanding. The missis — Mis. 
Carter — she's easily understood. Keep the 
home fires burning. That's to say, five able- 
bodied women, who might be helping to win 
the war, kep' here to coddle and fuss over one 
idle womanyfiqiMairf Pdwidow, too. Funny she 


- —****■»■•» *i 

**i*iMiiMt u* uruMih M-uniHH i i.i 

•4 t A -. * *L#, 



and the dog would look if they met the en^my 
advancing round the corner 1 " 

" Oh, we've heard that tale before," said 
Edith, the parlourmaid. 

" And much you'd have done to prevent it 
coming true. You take the dog out regular, 
don't you, morning and evening, in almost all 
weathers ? And Mrs. Carter she gives you a 
blouse — one she's tired of wearing — for your 
devotion to Bingo, doesn't she ? I understand 
that part of it. But I tell you, cook, and you, 
too, Edith — I tell the lot of you, I don't under- 
stand how you've the face to carry on wittf it. 
And I don't understand how you'll look — but 
precious foolish, I guess — when the boys come 
home an' ask you, some of 'em, what you've 
done to help the cause-" 

It was not new ; but, coming from such a 
quarter, it created a considerable sensation. In 
the old-time melodramas an immense effect used 
to be produced whea the supposed deaf-mute, 
suddenly abandoning his disguise, defied and 
harangued the oppressors ; and the effect of 
Adelaide's outburst was essentially of the same 
character. She, the tongue-tied, the down- 
trodden, had found a voice and disclosed herself 
as outrageously uppish in spirit. Surprise robbed 
her hearers of ail power of repartee ; for once it 
was they and not Adelaide who had no answer 

Next day -she gave notice, announcing as her 
reason for departure that she felt " a call " to 
go straight out to the war. * 

" Something of this has reached my ears 
already," said Mrs. Carter ; " and I think you 
are talking, and evidently wanting to act, in a 
foolish manner — in a manner rather ungrateful 
to me, Adelaide, who, have tried so hard to keep 
things together, and make you all comfortable, 
during this dreadful war, at great sacrifices to 

In fact, this was the first defection in the- 
domestic ranks, and Mrs. Carter had considered 
the matter with care. She did not attach any 
value to Adelaide's services ; if the truth must 
be confessed, Adelaide, as well as being shy and 
-iwkward, had shown herself to be sl&ck and 
incompetent ; so that, in spite of the disgusting 
^itficulties of life caused by this wretched war, 
Mrs. Carter did not doubt that she could secure 
;i better second housemaid in Adelaide's place. 
Hut the danger was that the rest of the house- 
hold might be upset. Anything to prevent that. 
When one goes, another follows. Stifling her 
pride and irritation, therefore, Mrs. Carter spoke 
to the would-I>e deserter in a tone of affectionate 

" Adelaide, I honour the emotion that moves 
you, and I'll say no more of my own wishes. 
But, with the best will in the world, you don't 
know what you are undertaking. Believe me; 
you are not strong enough." 

M Joan of Arc," said Adelaide, " was only a 
poor weak girl. Yet she drove the English out 
of France." 

M But you don't want to do that," said Mrs. 
<>arter. " Now you're talking like a pro-German. 
I don't think you know yourself what you want." 

" Oh, yes, 1 do," said Adelaide. " I want to 
fight for the freedom of the world, and not lie 
snug a-bed and eat regular meals here, when 
half humanity's starving and bleeding." 

£fter that there was no more to be said. The 
only thing was to get rid of her at once. 

" But leaving me, as you do," said Mrs. Carter, 
" without serving your month, you go, of CQurs* , 
without your money." 

" I prefer to go without my money," said 
Adelaide, loftily. 

Within an hour she had packed her trunk, and 
a taxi-cab stood outside the front door of Belmont . 

** Good-bye," said Adelaide to her fellow- 
servants. *' You won't never see me again." 

They clustered at the side entrance and on 
the gravel drive to watch her roll away; and 
Mrs. Carter came down among them, laying 
dignity aside for once, and encouraging them to 
mock and make merry at the deserter's expense. 
She was nioSt anxious to shatter any dangerous 
thoughts that might have been set working. 
Nothing is so efficacious as ridicule. 

" Joan of Arc 1 " said Mrs. Carter, laughing 
as if hugely amused. " ShS called herself Joan 
of Arc. Joan of Arc going to buy a tin sword 
and a paste-board helmet." And she laughed 
again. " Oh, dear, how silly people can be 1 " 

And by the way in which the servants laughed 
and echoed the name of Joan of Arc she felt sure 
that the danger was averted. r * 

Adelaide tried to be a W.A.A.C., to be a 
W.R.E.N;, an A.S.C. M.T.O., , a V.^.D. ; she 
tried for all the letters of the alphabet ; but 
everywhere she was rejected. Most unfortunately 
for her, at this period the authorities had decided 
that they did not want any more women for 
service with the armies in France. People at 
recruiting offices sent Adelaide on to munition* ; 
but here again she met with disappointment. 
None but skilled hands were required. Every- 
where she was confronted with lists oi printed 
questions ; and when she showed that she had 
no qualifications for war-work, people asked her, 
orally, even more distressing questions. 
" Can you cook ? " 

" Are you a really good housemaid ? " 
" Have you had practice in waiting at table ? " 
There was a chance, possibly, of putting her 
into a work-girls' canteen ; but even this chance 
soon* vanished. Besides, she did not want to 
wash plates or sweep floors here in England ; 
she wanted to get across the water and do great 
deeds in France. The spirit that had been 
' aroused in her still burned 'brightly, but the 
sense of failure fell cold upon her. At night she 
used to weep piteously, thinking of her soldier 
boy and all the other brave lads out there ; and 
in imagination she saw the uniformed girls 
waving their hands to them, calling out 
44 Cheerio," perhaps even blowing kisses to 
them as they marched by along the dusty roads 
up towards the battle front. Why might not 
she do even so much as that ? Why was fate 
so cruel ? 

She had spent nearly all her savings ; she 
dared not go c^ino to her mother and father m 




Wiltshire, At last, driven by necessity, she 
accepted the offer of a domestic servant's place. 

The offer came from a lady she had met 
at sonic employment committee rooms ; a 
businesslike, quick-speaking lady called Miss 
I "inlay son* 

" Bf an accident, it so happens that I am in 
*ore need of a housemaid. Three kept — cook, 
house, and parlour* Happy, comfortable home — 
but, mind you, I expect to see the work properly 
done* Very good* Then I am prepared to take 
you at once— if character from last place proves 

u The lady I was with*" said Adelaide, "couldn't 
but give me a good character— but, ma'am, 1 
simply can't apply for it." 

+ * Why ? " 

Poor Adel aide ex plai ned a 1 1 
the circumstances. She had 
left in order to enrol herself 
in the army : she had spoken 
strongly on the duty oi giving 
your life to your country ; 
they had attempted to laugh 
her down. If they Learned 
that all the fine talk hai 
ended in this, they wot) id 
laugh louder than ever. 

^Vhat w a s 
the lady a name 
and address ? " 

" I'd rather 
not tell you -even 
that/* said Ade- 
laide. " I don't 
want no commu- 
nication of any 
sort with them." 

Miss 1-iidity 
son looked hard 
ut Adelaide, and 
then came to a 
prompt decision 

" Adelaide, j 
will risk it. You 
appear, honest, 
Your story i^ 
corroborate d - 
to a certain ex 
tent — by your 
here and else- 
where. Come 
uarly to-morrow 
ti turning , It is 
a thing 1 would 
never have done 
in peace time. 
But the times 
are not normal, 
there's no get- 
ting away fron 
It/ 1 

And she told 
Adelaide how to 
find No. 1 8, 
Iter wick Road, 

Adelaide settled down' in Berwick Road, and 
a dull apathy possessed her. It was a relief 
perhaps to have some regular meals again, lor she 
had been going rather short of food lately ; hut 
she felt that her heart was almost broken. In 
spite of every effort to appear cheerful, she wroti- 
dolorous letters t6 Private Budd, B.E + F, Her 
fellow-servants were easy enough to get on with, 
and they left her unmolested in her sadness. 
They were no tiling like so fine and ladylike as 
the maids at Mrs. Carter's. 

They saw Utile of their mistress, who was mil 
early and late at her committees and hospitals. 


""rtrt-^ watch her RofflriflffljlTOrii 



t l. t b t ■ i , i.7 

• i * kin.' 



She worked hard herself, and she did not like to 
see others slacking. She blended something of 
the war spirit into her admonitions, but to 
Adelaide it did not seem to be the real true flame 
of patriotism. 

" Now, don't go to sleep over it — not in war- 
time/' Miss Finlayson would say. " Remember 
there's a war on. We all have to do our bit. 
And one can do one's bit here just as usefully 
as anywhere else." 

Nevertheless, on the whole, Adelaide liked her 
in a dull, apathetic way ; and she accepted 
occasional rebukes without murmuring. 

After about a month the household moved. 
Miss Finlayson carried through the operation 
as though she had been a regimental transport 
officer, ordering about the old men as they loaded 
the two pantechnicon vans, inspecting the rather 
scraggy horses, and seeing that they were pro-, 
perly fed before she gave the word to move off- 
She had secured a private omnibus for herself, 
the three servants, and all the light baggage. 
There was so much of this light stuff that it 
seemed as if they would never pack in. But 
Miss Finlayson managed it somehow ; and off 
they went, so deeply buried in parcels that they 
could scarcely see one another. Adelaide sat 
nursing band-boxes, brooding sadly, and looking 
with lack-lustre eyes at vistas of unknown 
streets as the omnibus slowly and heavily jogged 
along. It was a tedious, unending drive. 

" Now we are not far off," said Miss Finlayson, 
at last. 

Adelaide had been dreaming. She roused 
herself, and, glancing through the window of 
the omnibus door with faintly awakened interest, 
gave a little start. She had seen this street 
before ; that bootshop was an old friend — one, 
two, three cinema palaces, all three familiar to 
her. At the place where roads meet, among the 
trams, near the corner by the big public -houses, 
the omnibus lurched and began to turn in the 
direction of Hill Road. 

" Where are we going ? " gasped Adelaide. 
" What's the name of your. house ? " 

" Lyndhurst," said Miss Finlayson, briskly, y 
" We are close to it now. I recognize the acacia 

In another minute the omnibus stopped out- 
side the newly-painted woodwork of Lyndhurst. 
It was the little unoccupied house immediately 
opposite to Belmont, Adelaide's old home. 

She was overwhelmed. 

Her main thought was to escape discovery by 
the servants at Belmont. She tried also to hide 
from tradesmen's boys who might recognize her. 
She never went out except after dark, and then 
heavily veiled. But it was all no good. One 
morning the milkman spotted her cleaning the 
steps of Lyndhurst. 

" Bless mo. Miss Cross, isn't it — that used to 
be over the way ? " 

A day or two afterwards he addressed her 
facetiously, and she knew at once that he had 
betrayed her. 

" Yos, they was surprised across the road. 
They all sends their compliments. They tell 

me," and he sniggered, " as you've changed 
your name. Not Adlaide any more, but Jane. 
Jane of Hark, eh ? Haw, liaw." 

It was bitter to think of hpw they 'were ail 
deriding her. Mrs. Carter had kept her com- 
mand together ; all of them were still there — 
although the milkman said that Loo had some 
ideas of going on the music-hall stage and 
earning big money. 

As the months passed, Adelaide carried a 
heart of lead beneath her print and serge dresses. 
Nowhere but here would she have suffered so 
grievously from the sense of failure. She was 
sustained only by two letters from Private Budd. 
In one of these he said, f< I have not changed 
my. mind " ; in the other he said, M We been 
through a lot lately " ; and at the end of each 
he set down signs of multiplication that meant 
kisses. She cried over these letters in secret, 
but there was bitterness to her even in the 
affectionate symbols. She was pot worthy of 
him, and never likely to be. Wh^n she read 
the war news, and tried to imagine what he and 
the others were enduring, she felt that she would 
not be able to look him in the face — if he ev$r 
returned to her. 

Very dark thoughts came to poor Adelaide 
now that all the bright ones had gone. She had 
been ready to give her life to her country, but 
they would not take it ; and she thought some- 
times that she would take it herself. 

Then Miss Finlayson 's parlourmaid left, and 
Adelaide took on the parlourmaid's work as 
well as her own. She did not mind the extra 
labour ; indeed, in that it gave her less time for 
sad reveries, it was welcome. Miss Finlayson 
praised hdr highly for thus throwing herself into 
the breach. 

"I hope to relieve -you by the week-end, 
Adelaide ; and 1,'m really grateful for the way 
you've tackled it." 

" Oh, it s nothing," said Adelaide. 

" How do you mean, nothing ? I think it's 
a great deal, and you've done it splendidly." 

" It's all child's play," said Adelaide, 
" compared with what they're doing out in 

" Bravo ! " cried Miss Finlayson, cordially. 
*' That's the spirit," and she gave Adelaide a pat 
of approval on the shoulder. 

A little later it was agreed between them that 
the parlourmaid should not be replaced ; Adelaide 
would carry on. 

She worked hard now, harder and harder. 
She had, it must be owned, never really worked 
before ; but that thought of France, and what 
was happening there, made toil seem easy and 
fatigue one's proper portion. She used to say to 
herself, " If I'd had my wish and been accepted 
I'd never have been off duty ; I'd have had to 
march fifteen miles on end hke those girls in 
the news|>aper ; I'd 'a' bin busy all through the 
night as well as day." So she. took a sort of 
melancholy pleasure in not sparing herself ; she- 
did far more than was necessary ; and soon she 
began to find in the work almost an anodyne for 
failure and disappointment. 

"It is no compliment," said Miss Finlayson. 



65 , 

'* You are making me a good deal more comfort- 
able than when we had Eliza." 

" Oh, don't mention it, ma'am," said Adelaide. 

During the fogs and frosts of winter the cook's 
health began to fail, and, unknown to Miss Finlay- 
son, Adelaide was doing a lot of cook's work 
also. Adelaide liked it ; this learning how to 
cook brought a new faint interest to her weary 
life. The cook used to sit in an arm-chair by flje 
dresser, sighing, and giving directions. 

Upstairs in the dining-room Adelaide asked, 
shyly, while she cleared the table, " Did you lijce 
the cabinet pudding, ma'am ? " 

" Yes. Tell Mrs. Smiles excellent. I must say 
old Smiles can cook plain fare against anybody. 
If she ever broke down I don't know what I 
should do. The war is making existence more 
difficult every day. - Cooks are like diamonds 
now — fetch any money." 

In February the blow that Miss Finlayson 
dreaded fell upon her ; Mrs. Smiles showed 
symptoms of pleurisy, and had to be removed 
to a hospital. Adelaide carried on. " If you 
don't mind," she said, " I'd much prefer you 
didn't get another. I shall be happier doing it 
all alone, and I promise you sha'n't suffer." 

" Adelaide, I admire your pluck and good feel- 
ing, but you reaHy can't do the work of three. 
You will simply kill yourself in attempting it." 

" Oh, no, ma'am, that's all right. Give me 
a trial, anyways." 

The trial was made, and Miss Finlayson did 
not suffer — far from it. She had never been so 
comfortable in her life. Adelaide, always im- 
proving, by the summer had developed into that 
greatest of household treasures* — a perfect general 
servant. It was not only that she got through 
the work of three people, she did it. so much 
better. The brass was always shining the steps 
were spotless, the hot water was never cold ; 
and, as a tour de force, or crowning* proof of 
energy, Adelaide allotted a day in each week 
to give one of the rooms a thorough spring 

" Oh, my dear girl," said Miss Finlayson one 
evening in a burst of genuine enthusiasm after 
her good dinner, " what a wife you will make ! 
What a, wife you will make, some day, when the 
war is over ! " 

Adelaide flushed, then turned pale, and her 
lips trembled. 

" Are you engaged, Adelaide ? " N 

' * No, ma'am. But I have a friend, and I*m very 
anxious about him," and Adelaide began to cry. 

It was so long since she had heard from him, 
and she doubted if her own letters ever reached 
him. At night she used to have dreadful dreams 
that he was killed, or taken prisoner, or that he 
had quite forgotten her. But for the hard work, 
she would have gone out of her mind from 
anxiety. Then, when the summer was nearly 
over, the milkman brought across the road a 
letter that Dick Jiad addressed to her at Belmont. 
Her hand shook so much that the milkman had 
to carry the milk for her into the kitchen. She 
waited until he had gone before she opened 
Dick's letter. 

He -was alive, not a prisoner, and he still 
VoL Ivii.— 6. 

remembered her. He had been transferred to 
another battalion, which had done a lot of 
moving about as well as a lot of fighting. But 
now things were quieter, and he hoped to get a 
turn of. leave before long. He reproached her for 
not writing, and he put a great number of signs 
of multiplication or addition after his signature. 

That afternoon she overcame her pride and 
reluctance, and, going across the road, faced her 
old fellow-servants at Belmont. It was an ordeal, 
but it had to be gone through. She was obliged 
to aslc them a favour. She begged that if her 
soldier turned up there looking for her, he might be 
sent at once to the correct address* She could not 
risk the chance of misunderstanding or delay when 
Dick came round the corner and up Hill Road. 

" A soldier ? " said Loo, wickedly. " I suppose 
you mean a brother officer ? " 

" Yes, of course," said Mrs. Vaughan ; " she's 
a ' General * now, and we mustn't forget it." 

And they chaffed her unmercifully. 

'■' To be sure. When you went into fhe Army 
we knew you'd do well, but we never thought 
you'd go up so rapid as to be a ' General ' within 
the year. No one under you, and no one above 
you — you must feel grand. People used to look 
down on ' Generals ' in the old days, counting 
them as mere drudges ; but times are changed, 
aren't they, Emily ? " 

Adelaide bore it all without flinching, or 
attempting to answer back. She felt the pin- 
pricks, but they were nothing to what "she had 
experienced from her own thoughts. 

It was in September when he came, still day- 
light after a warm day ; and by providential 
good fortune Miss Finlayson was dining out and 
would not be back till late. They went out 
together, and along unfrequented footpaths 
between the villas and the fields. At such 
moments as the paths were quite empty they 
did a lot ?f hugging ; and, really, to any tender- 
hearted person it would have been touching to 
hear them talk to each other. 

Adelaide told him all about it — her high 
aspirations, her vow to do something great or 
perish in the attempt, and her total and miserable 
failure. Before she had finished she was sobbing 
on his shoulder. 

M I tried, Dick — I did try. An' they — they 
wouldn't let me. An' I've worked, Dick. I've 
learnt to cook real well. I do the whole house 
for her, and she praises me. I'm not the helpless, 
useless girl I was — but when I think of all I 
dreamed and hoped, I feel I've nothing to live 
for, and I want to go straight to the river and 
commit suicide." 

" No, don't do that," said Dick. " Live for 
my feake. We'll be married soon's .the war's 
over.' And we'll light out for the Colonies. All 
this cooking and housekeeping, what you speak 
of, will come in very handy out there." 

Then they went to the cinema theatre — the 
one where they had first met — and sat with 
clasped hands, except when the lights were up. 
The* saw runaway motor-cars, and jolly Wild 
West scenes with the sheriff and his posse ; and 
Adelaide felt happy again. 


m«j t. ■_*•!»* ; i-.- ml'U/md; 

I ~~A~.m 



I AM the proud possessor of a box of matches 
inherited from a rich but honest relative. I find that 
I can form with them any given pair of these four 
regular figures, using all the matches every time. 
Thus, if there were eleven matches, I could form with 
them, as shown, the triangle and pentagon or the 


pentagon and hexagon, or the square and triangle (by 
using only three matches in the triangle) ; but could 
not with eleven matches form the triangle and hexagon, 
or the square and pentagon, or the square and hexagon. 
Of course, there must be the same number of matches 
in every side of a figure. Now, what is the smallest 
number of matches I can have in the box ? 

If I multiply, and also add, 9 and 9 I get 81 and 18, 
which contain the same figures. If I multiply and add 
2 and 47 I get 04 and 49 — the same figures. If I 
multiply and add 3 and 24 I get the same figures — 
72 and 27. Can you find two numbers . that when 
■ multiplied and added will, in this simple manner, 
produce the same tltret figures ? 

The solution to the following will be found very 
interesting if the reader has not seen it before. I want 
to form a regular pentagon, but the only thing at hand 
happens to be a rectangular strip of paper. How am 
I to do it without pencil, compasses, scissors, or any- 
thing else whatever but my fingers ? 





Mate in three moves 

Here is another three-mover with few pieces. It if 
by Jespersen, of Copenhagen, and is not difficult. , 

The teeming crowds to fourth were hurrying, 
Riding, driving, running, scurrying, 

Covering first - n every side. 
"They come ! But stay ! It fifths, alas ! 
A man is stretched upon the grass I " 

To third himself he tried. 
And now a woman, worn and white, 
To buy my second spends her mite, 

Because the fellow died. 


Solutions to Last MontVs Puzzles. 

The letter addressed— 




was intende3 for John Underwood, Andovcr, England. 

(That is, JOHN under WOOD and over ENGLAND.) 

In the case of the walking puzzle, the distance 
between the two places must have been 18 miles. The 
meeting points were 10 miles from A. . . . and 12 miles 

from B Simply multiply 10 (the first distance) 

by 3 and deduct the second distance, 12. Could any* 
thing be simpler ? Try other distances for the meeting 
points (taking care that the first meeting distance is 
more than two-thirds of the second) and you will find 
the little rule will always. work. 

The five missing words, composed of the same 
seven letters, are ASPIRER, PARRIES, RAPIERS, 
REPAIRS, and PRAISER, in their order. 

by Google 

® ® QHB <2> 

Hilman's puzzle 
of the numbered 
square is solved 
as shown in the 
annexed diagram. 

It wi 1 be found 
that the numbers 
in each of the four 
strings correctly 
add up 20. 

The two num- 
bers, composed 
only of ones that 
sum. and multi- 
ply alike, are 11 
and 1.1. In both cases the result is 12.1. 

To solve the " Flanders Wheel " puzzle, move the 
counters in the following order : A*NDAFLND 

\^\ I '-1 1 1 I Q I 

I I _' I II 




moves in all. 

The precocious youngster's mother had fifteen 
apples at the start. 

In attempting to solve the " Find the Cat " puzzle 
it is necessary to remember that there are various ' 
kinds of cats. For example, there is the domestic cat, 
\ tlie nautical cat, the mechanical cat, and also the 
punitive cat, or cat-o'-nine-tails. The reader is apt, 
for some reason or other, to confine his investigations . 
to the domestic variety alone. It is, therefore, not 
surprising if he is led off the scent by the tail coming 
out of the barrel. Yet if he had happened to have 
made a study- of the recondite laws governing these 
feline and canine appendages he would know that if a 
cat has any black fur on its' body the tip of its tail 
will be black, while if a dog has any white hair the 
tip of its tail will be white. The tail in question is 
therefore the tail of a dog, and we*have to look else- 
where- for our cat. (I anticipate a very close inspection 
of domestic animals' tails, and the discovery by 
correspondents of rare exceptions to the # curious rule !) 
An examination of the three flower-pots in the illus- 
tration will show that, while the first two contain 

plants, in the third one, for. some curious reason that 
need not be explained, a cat-o'-nine-tails has been 
stuck. Here, then, is the missing cat ! 

The farmer's seventeen horses were to be divided 
in the proportions one-halt, one-third, and one-nin'h. 
It was not stated* that the sons were to receive those 
fractions of seventeen. The proportions are thus nine- 
eighteenths, six-eighteenths, and two-eighteenths, so 
if the sons receive respectively nine, six, and two 
horses each, the terms of the legacy will be exactly 
carried out. Therefore, the ridiculous old method 
described does happen to give a correct solution. 

It is true of any solidly constructed four-legged table 
or chair that one leg cannot be raised from the ground 
without raising two or more. 

As regards the false scales puzzle, since one canister 
weighs an ounce, the first illustration shows that in 
one pan eight packets equal three ounces, and, there- 
fore, one packet will weigh three-eighths of an ounce. 
The second illustration shows that in the other pan 
one packet equals six ounces. Multiply i by 6 and 
we get $ , the square root of which is f, or 1 i 02* as 
the real weight of one packet. Therefore, eight packets 
weigh 12 oz., which is the correct answer. 




SIX of the most difficult bridge problems 
ever invented by man were" published 
in the Christmas number of The 
Strand Magazine. Here are the solutions :— 

No. 1. Five Cards ; by R. C. Mankowski. 
Hand Hearts Clubs Diamonds Spades 

A 10 9 6 none 8 A 

Y Q 7 10 9 8 

B none Q 9 6 A 7 none 

Z J A 8 J 5 none 

No trumps, Z to lead ; Y and Z to win four tricks. 

Z starts with the smaller of his two diamonds. 
If B wins, he returns the diamond, as that 
gives Y an opportunity to make a mistake. 
A discards a heart, Y the club. Z leads the ace 
of clubs, and whichever suit A discards, Y 

II B refuses to win the first trick, Y leads 
the spade, on which B discards a club and Z 
a heart. Y wins whichever heart A leads and 
B has to pick a discard. 

No. 2. Six Cards ; by the late W. H. 

Hand Hearts Clubs Diamonds Spades 

A none 9 5 K 10 73 

Y 6 3 82 A 9 none 
B none 7 4 3 8 62 
Z none J 10 6 Q 54 

Hearts trumps, Z to lead ; Y and Z to win all six. 

X leads a high club, on which Y puts the 
eight. Z leads a spade, which Y trumps; Y 
leads the trump and Z discards the queqn o£ 
diamonds. Y now leads the ace of diamonds, 

by V^iC 

and the rest is obvious, Z having adjusted his 
discards to those of B on the third trick, when 
Y led the trump. 

The essentials in this problem are establish- 
ing the tenace in clubs by giving up the eight, 
and discarding, the diamond before the diamonds 
are led. Nothing else will solve. 

No. 3. Seven Cards ; by Prof. T. J. 

Hand Hearts Clubs Diamonds Spades 

A 2 A 7 2 none A 6 5 

Y 4 K 4 3 none 984 

B K 8 3 none A 5 32 

Z A J 7 6 5 4 7 

No trumps, Z to lead ; Y and Z to win five tricks. 

Z leads the spade, which holds. (A must 
duck it, or he makes both Y's spades good for 
tricks.) Z follows with a club, and there are 
three important lines of defence to be met. 

1. If A plays his smallest club, so does Y, 
and B discards a diamond or a spade. Z leads 
another club, which A must win, and B dis- 
cards a diamond or a spade. Now, if A makes 
the ace of spades and leads a heart, B's discards 
will have settled matters. But if A leads the 
heart first, Z wins whatever B plays and leads 
the diamond. Now B loses two heart tricks. 

2. If A plays the seven of clubs to the second 
trick, Y must win it with the king and lead the 
heart. Z wins whatever B plays and makes 
the best heart, so that Y may see what A is, 
going to keep, and keep the same suit himself. 

3. If A plays the ace of clubs to the second 
trick, he cannot lead the spade, as that makes 



• «•*.*«*.« &* 

_* c *__- 

■ *«..*fl._ 



it too easy for Y and Z. If A picks the heart 
lead, Z wins whatever B plays and leads another 
club. If A plays the seven, Y makes two club 
tricks and a spade. If A ducks the club lead, 
Y also ducks and B is forced to discard. If 
he unguards the diamond, Z leads a diamond 
and makes two heart tricks. If A returns the 
deuce of clubs after winning the second trick 
with the ace, Y plays the king and leads the 
heart, and B's discards will have brokten up 
his defence. 

The popular solution is for Z to start with a 
club, but it is defeated by A's putting on the 
ace at once and leading back the deuce, B dis- 
carding spades. If Y allows Z to win this trick, 
Z must lead right up to B's defence, or give A 
two more tricks in the black suits. If Y wins 
the return of the club, he must lead the heart, 
and either A or B make two more tricks. 

No. 4. Eight Cards ; by HWrry Boardman. 

Hand Hearts 

A Q 7 

Y J 64 

B A 83 

Z 952 

Clubs Diamonds Spades 

K 5 10 9 7 5 none 

A 4 Q J 3 none 

10 7 3 none 6 2 

J 8 6 none 8 5 

* Hearts trumps, Z to lead ; If and Z to win six 

Z starts with the -eight of spades. (Neither 
the small spade nor the deuce of trumps will 
solve.) A trumps with the queen, and Y undei** 
trumps with the six. This is to prevent A from 
defeating the solution by a trump lead. 

A leads a small diamond and Y wins it with 
the jack, B and Z both discarding clubs. Y 
now leads the jack of trumps, which B ducks. 

Y then leads the high diamond. If B discards 
another club, Z trumps with the five and leads 
a spade, upon which Y saves his four of trumps. 

Y leads the ace of clubs and the nine of trumps 
must make. 

The importance of leading the jack of trumps 
at the third trick, the moment B refuses to 
trunip the diamond, is one of the beauties of 
this problem. If Y goes on with the queen 
of diamonds, beforesleading that jack of trumps, 
B will discard another club and make a spade 

If A refuses to trump the first trick of all, 
discarding a diamond, Y gets rid of the small 
club and Z leads another spade .'.3 If A passes 
again, Y trumps with the four and leads the 
queen of diamonds. If B passes up this trick, 

Y at once makes his ace of clubs, and, if A 
has only one ^diamond left, leads the jack of 

Of the two plausible solutions to this problem, 
the trump lead can be defeated by A's passing, 
allowing B to kill the jack with the ace. The 
three of trumps allows A to make the queen 
and lead a diamond. B trumps this with the 
eight, and Z over-trumps with the nine. After 
Z has made his spade trick he must give B a 
spade trick, or Y must give A a diamond. 

The smaller spade opening allows A to discard 
a diamond, and forces Y to trump. Y leads 
the jack of trumps, upon which B puts the ace 

by L^OOgle 

and leads the six of spades, which A trump* 
with the queen. Y can either under-trump 
or discard the small club. If he undef-trurnp^ 
A leads the king of clubs. If he discard* 
A leads the diamond and Z is compelled to 
over-trump B. 

No. 5. Eight Cards ; by Jay Reed. 

Hand Hearts Clubs Diamonds Spades 

AA10 Q 7 10 854 

Y 9376 none A K 9 7 

BQ43A '62 AQ 

Z K J 2 J 8 Q 3 J 

No trumps, Z to lead ; Y and Z to win Jour tricks. 

Z starts with a club, and Y discards a heart. 
There are three strong lines of defence, all 
difficult to meet: 

1. If B leads ace and then queen of spades, 
Z discards a small heart, and Y lets the spade 
queen "hold. B leads a diamond and Y leads 
the hearts. If B leads the heart instead of 
the diamond, the result is the same in the end. 

2. If B leads a diamond, instead of the spader 
or if he leads the spade ace and then a diamond, 
Y leads the hearts, and the rest is easy. 

3. The real trap in the problem comes in the 
third line of B's defences. Suppose he lets 
the spades alone and leads a small heart for 
the second trick ? This is the most difficult 
defence to meqt, chiefly because the attention 
is so fixed on B's hand that A's is forgotten. 
Z puts on the jack of hearts. If A wins with 
the ace and comes right back with the ten, 7 
wins with the king and makes a club trick, Y 
discarding a spade. * 

Now a small diamond puts Y in and he leads 
the nine of hearts, which forces B to give him a 
* spade trick. If A tries to avoid, this ending 
by leading the spade through Y, instead of 
coming right back with the heart ten, Y plays 
a small spade, and B must lead the hearts, 
or establish the king of spades. 

Here comes the play that shows the composer's 
cunning. When B wins the spade and leads 
the heart, Z wins the trick and leads the winning 
club. It looks as if B could discard to beat 
anything. So he can, but what about A? 
If B keeps both his diamonds, he can discard 
the ace of spades, as Z has no more spades. 
But if A gives up a* spade he blocks the diamonds 
and Z will lead the three of diamonds, not the 
queen, and A will lose two spade tricks, because 
the moment Y sees that A is going to keep the 
seven of diamonds, Y discards the ace on the 
club trick. If A discards the diamond, s<« 
does Y, and Z puts B in with the heart, so that 
B loses two diamond tricks. 

If Z starts with a small diamond opening, 
so as to establish a trick with the queen, Y must 
lead the spade. B wins this and leads the small 
heart, which A wins and returns. Now the 
two black aces in B's hand must bring in that 
heart trick. If Y tries to avoid this by leading 
the heart for the second trick, A wins the heart 
and leads the spade, so that B can make the 
spade queen and lead another heart, establishing 
the queen. 

Original from 




6. Nine Cards ; by R. C. Mankowski. 


Hearts Clubs Diamonds 



952 none A 

A Q 10 7 5 


A K Q 4 none none 



J 10 7 K95432 none 



none A Q J 10 6 J 10 


Hearts trumps, Z to lead : V and Z to win six 

Z leads the ace of clubs, which A trumps and 
Y over-trumps with the queen. Y now leads 
both his high trumps and then the small one, 
Z discarding diamonds and spades. As B wins 
the last round of trumps, he can make the 
king of clubs, but that is all he can make, and 
A makes the ace of the suit Z has kapt. 

If A refuses to trump the first trick, Y dis- 
cards a spade. Now Z leads a diamond, Y 
trumps with a high trump, and leads both his 
high trumps and then the small one. On the 
first and second trump leads, Z will discard 
clubs. Then, if B has the best trump for the 

last round, Z discards a spade, gets in with the 
clubs, makes the ten of diamonds, and loses a 
spade at ^the end. But if A has the best trump 
, for the last round, Z thfen discards the third 
club, and makes the spade king and ten of 
diamonds, and loses a club at the end. 

The more plausible of the two false solutions 
is the small club opening. A discards the spade 
five, and B gets out of the way by giving up 
his high trVimps, so that A shall win the third 
round. This play obviously makes six tricks 

The defence to the diamond opening is ipx 
B to under-trump with a high trump. If Y 
leads the high trump, B keeps the seven and A 
keeps the deuce. If Y goes on with a high one, 
A throws in the nine and Y is left in the lead, 
so that all he can win is his fourth trump, losing 
four spades. Y cannot escape this by leading 
• the small trump earlier, as/>A will win with the 
nine and lead the deuce. 


(S is given for'Kt.) 

Changes 1 to 8, also 13, and 22, excepting 
those in which White checks on first move, e — 
1 S to B 4, and 5, first turn— S (4) to Q 5, are 
each solved, by : — 

Turns Leftwards. 

11st. I and. I ' 3rd. 

S (6) to Q 5 I S Q 7 to K $ I S (5) to K 4 

Changes 9. M. 16, 17, 18, 19, g, and /, excepting 
those in which White checks on .first move, are 
each solved by :— 

u Q S to K 4 I S (6) to Q 5 I S B 7 to K 5 I S ace to K 4 

10.— i. Q to B 4, then as foregoing. 11. — 1. Q 
takes P all round. 12. — i.Qto K 4, then as 
first set. 15 and /. — l^Q to {^4, then f as 
second set. * 20 and j. — K to S 2. m — K S to Q 4 ; 
first and second turns — Q takes P. The main 
play in the final solution is — K takes S (S 5) ; 
1. S to K 4 ch, K to B 4 ; 2. Q to Q 5 mate. 

The checking key moves, being obvious, are 
not given. 


{The Third of the Series.) 

Two things the world is needing more and more, 
While war and scarcity go hand in hand ; 

May they be granted as in days of yore, , 

And hover smiling over ev*ry land. 

L So treat the question. If qhe answer Yes, 
You may be happy, or may not, I guess. 

2. Aristocratic in a high degree : 

Put third in front, aad genuine. is he. 

X We all have got one, so 'tis wonder small 
Our general mother gained thereby a fall. 

4. Though not a dance, you cannot help but fee] 

It ought to be connected with a reel. 
. r >. Of such as row or shoot the hint is plain, 

Also of money and a piece of Spain. 
6. No Caesar was this Julius, but still 

A statesman (note the sign) for good or ill. 


Answers to Acrostic No. 57 should be addressed to the 

Acrostic Editor, The Strand Magazine, Southampton 

Street, Strand. London, W.CJ2, and must arrive not later 

than by the first post on January 10th. 

To every light one alternative answer may also be sent ; 

Digitized by GOOQK 

it should be written at Mc side. At the foot of his answer 
every solver should write his pseudonym and nothing else. 

Answer to No. 
W in 

E xtr 

S tripe 

T ro 


Note,— Light 3. The Stars and Stripes. 



Answer to No. 56. 













tump * 



Notes.— Light 3. Fifth. 5. Nob, 
in "The Pickwick Papers " ; at cricket, 





Bill Stumps, 

An unfortunate misprint occurred in the second light 
of No. 62 ; all answers to this light must therefore be 
considered correct. For the fifth light " Rizzio n is also 
admitted. Even with these concessions, only t*e've solu- 
tions were entirely correct, whereas No. 49 produced 607 
correct answers. 

j 1 1 1 .* 1 1 1 


m-r- «if« vifkfn 


Illustrated by Sydney Seymour Lucas. 

T about half-past seven o'clock 
in the evening O'Fell got the 

At six he had arrived home 

at his HarQpstead house, as 

usual ; dined at half -past ; kissed 

his children good night at seven ; 

got out his cigars, cushioned his 

easiest chair, produced a sensational novel. 

Suddenly a terrible blow fell upon O'Fell. 

The handwriting on the envelope, stirring 

the deeps of a recollection which had fifteen 

years piled on top of it, sent a vague thrill of 

pain along his nerves. The name " William 

Kent " stabbed his memory and hurt him. 

Bah 1 Perhaps he was only peering for trouble. 

He jerked open the envelope, tugged out the 

letter, turned first to the end. It was signed 

" William Kent." 

When O'Fell saw tfiat name fear clutched at 
his heart with its grasp cold as ice and rigid 
as frost. The letter ran as follows : — 

" My Dear O'Fell, — You will be surprised 
to hear from me after all these years. I write 
in very tragic circumstances. By the time you 
receive this communication it is probable that 
life for me will have ended. I have been a 
dying man for two years. I might have lived 
for two more, but I understand that my heart 
is failing under continuous pain, and my last 
hours are nearly spent. 

'* For two almost unendurable years I have 
contemplated that lawless action which was 
committed by myself, and you, and Lennill. 
It has been an ever-present phantom by my 
bedside, mocking my physical agony. I used 
to smile when told of sick men who were haunted 
by a sin of the past. But it is true ; horribly, 
maddeningly true. 

" Our crime cannot sit so lightly on your 
soul that you have forgotten it. No word from 
me can be necessary to recall it to you. We 
fled -to America together, you and I; Lennill 
went to South Africa for good. The law may 
find him there ; I can do no more than furnish 
justice with his name. Until an accident of 
chance made me acquainted with your business 
and residence in London, quite recently, I had 
no idea what had become of you. Not without 
a bitter struggle did I decide to send you this 
line saying what I am doing. It may be wrong 
of me to warn you. If I do so it is because 
we were once associates, and because I under- 
stand that you have long since been a clean- 
living man. ' 


" I have put down in writing the entire story 
of our crime. Nothing less than that can help 
me in these final moments. Before you judge 
me harshly remember what I have _ suffered, 
and the dark into which I shall have passed 
as you read this. I was not afraid^then. 
. when we schemed together ; but I confess that 
now I am a man mortally afraid. 

" My written admission is intended for the 
eyes of the police, and to them it is addressed. 
Coward that I am, I could not bring myself to 
send it while still a living man. It forms part 
of a correspondence which I have handed to 
my minister, the Rev. T. John Andrews, 
of Furze Bank, in this avenue. I have instructed 
him to open the packet after my death, so that 
even he shall know nothing of my guilt until then 
— until he has forwarded my shameful story to 
the authorities. 

"I have nothing more to add* Do not cmv 
a man who finds himself unable to face the un- 
known without unburdening his conscience of a 
deed which has embittered the closing years of 
his life. — William Kent." 

O'Fell had started to read' with a quaking 
heart. He finished in a storm of fury. 

" The pitiful cur 1 The puling, cringing 
hound 1 " he burst out, jumping to his feet. 
" Ten times damned coward to leave others to 
face a music he started himself ! A foul, a filth v 
trick ! " 

After this discharge the blood whid} had 
rushed to his head ebbed pretty quickly, and 
O'Fell began to realize that coolness was needed 
here, not wrath. With an effort he fought down 
excitement, read the letter again, took a few 
turns up and down his carpet. And contempla- 
tion revealed the fact that he was in about a* 
unpleasant a situation as even a nightmare 
could scare him with. For the thing which he 
and his two associates had done was a punishable 
offence, and although it is true that fifteen years 
are fifteen years, yet a crime unexpiated never 
grows old and faded in the sight of the law. 

" My soul ! they can hand me out a couple ot 
years in jail for that ! " he muttered. 

Bad enough, and even anticipation of its 
likelihood oozed a clammy perspiration on his 
palms and lined forehead. But that would not 
be all. He had created for himself a position ; 
he was respected ; his friends were many. And 
his wife and children, whom he adored, had their 
happiness founded upon him — sure rock thai 
they thought he was. And he was that. That 
misdemeanour of the past had been made by 




circumstance , not disposition. He had genuinely 

regretted it, and with relief hud seen it sink 

deep in time. 

Now it. was tossed up again. And in the 

cruellest fashion. 

" Curse his cowardice ! Curse his treachery ! 

Curse his religious scruples ! " groaned O'FelL 
He kept making i half -dash for the door, 

with' intent to go round to the address on thi 

letter and see Kent- Bui each time he checked 

the impulse. In the first place the 

writer was probably beyond tea eh of 

expostulation. Or, in any case, he— 

Kent — would certainly refuse to see 

him. Then, again, the mischief was 

half done, since the minister named ir 

the letter was in receipt of the packet 

containing the vital com 

munication for the poUcr, 
" He is the man I want to 

get hold of, and not Kent/' 

moaned OTell, holding his 

aching head. '* But tn • ]•- 

proach him WOltld be worse 

than useless. t know his 

sort I He has been doing his 

best to make Kent utterly 

miserable with some hideous 

doctrine of eternal punish- 
ment. If I go t*> him with 

this story he will 

raise his eyes 

and groan." 
Yet reflection 

showed him that 

this did not seem 

altogether just. 

Kent had put 

his confession 
down in writing, 
and had not 
spoken of it to 
anyone. It was 
just on the cards 
that the Rev, 
John Andrews 
might be a pastor 
of a more brac- 
ing order than 
O'Feli's morbid 
and distempered 
mood repre- 
sented him. But 
since what had 
been entrusted to 
his charge was 
the secret of a 
dying — perhaps 
dead — ■ member 
of his-ehurch, to 
-appose that he 
coold fail in his duty of delivering it was u. 
thought without one shred of hope, 

" And yet while I wait here, doing nothing, 
the minister might be opening his packet, might 
even now be forwarding that most accursed 
letter to the police ! ,J groaned OTell, now torn 
with wretchedness and fear. " Something I 

must do. Either I must get that letter into my 
6\vii hands by lair means or foul, or else I must 
pack up to-night — now, this very minute, and 
bolt for it, Good God ! the police ! ,l 

At that instant the bell in the hall trilled 
sharply. OTell turned white ap a corpse. He 


stepped on tip-toe to the door and lis- 
ten ed f his lie art seeming t© beat all over, 
his body at once. A lady friend had 
called to see his wife ; that was alt* 
Two minutes later OTell left his house without 
saying a word to anybody. He picked up a taxi 
at once. 

" Aa fast as you can— and faster,' 1 he com- 

At the top of Tho-rai Avenue, which was tha 


wi irLinuip u riifi 



address given in Kent's letter, O'Fell dismissed 
his cab. In peering for the house called " Furze 
Bank," O'Fell found himself opposite William 
Kent's. There was no light behind any window, 
save a front one on the first floor. Across the 
yellow linen blind the shadow of a human form 
kept flitting. Presumably the master had not 
yet sped. 

The residence of the Rev. John Andrews 
was a score of yards farther along, on the opposite 
side of the road. There was no light in the front 

O'Fell glanced at his watch. An hour before 
midnight. In this quiet suburb the residents 
attended to their beauty sleep, for the avenue 
was deserted. 

With a feeling that it looked bad loitering 
outside the house, he opened the wooden gate 
and we^t through. Suddenly he saw a pale 
patch of light shining through a window at the 
back of the premises. It emanated from a snug 
little study. On a writing-table was an electric 
lamp. The desk was covered with papers, and 
two of its drawers were partly pulled out. 

O'Fell edged near and peered into this room. 
It was unoccupied. And as he looked, so an 
impulse came to him and tugged at him, drawing 
him closer and closer to the open window. 

This was the minister's study. There was no 
question of that. Those open books were 
obviously theological volumes. Well, what more 
likely than that William Kent's communication 
was in one of the drawers of that desk ? 

For three seconds O'Fell considered his chances. 
A sudden bold and determined leap might well 
carry him right across the abyss of ruin which 
yawned at his feet. 

He fetched a deep breath and climbed over 
the window-sill. 

His iirst act was to pass a lightning glance 
over the papers on top of the desk. What he 
sought was not there. He tugged open the first 
drawer ; it was full of receipted bills. He tried 
the second ; it contained the minister's tobacco 
and a box of cigarettes. He tested the third. 
Here was a bundle of papers tied with green tape. 
He lifted the lot out, and with sweating, frantic 
fingers was groping amongst them when a deep, 
calm voice said : — 

" Though of real spiritual worth, my friend, 
I fear that those sermons represent but a slender 
cash value." 

They dropped to the floor. O'Fell 's staring 
eyes glared into the tranquil ones of the Rev. 
John Andrews, who, stroking his grey beard, 
steadily surveyed his visitor through gold- 
rimmed spectacles. 

O'Fell might have thought of the window 
behind him, but the shock of the meeting was a 
culmination to what he had endured during the 
past three hours. He caught at the edge of the 
desk to keep himself from falling. 

The reverend gentleman took a step sideways 
and put out his hand to the button of a bell. 

"Don't! Don't!" gasped O'Fell. "I am 
not a thief ! I swear I am not a common 
thiel 1 " 

The other hesitated, lifting surprised eyebrows. 


" Indeed ? " said he, pleasantly. " I rather 
thought you were. May I ask " 

" Anything — anything ! " exclaimed O'Fell. 
" I came here to-night to see you. I wanted a 
certain letter. I found your window open, and 
was mad fool enough to enter surreptitiously." 

" And quick enough to invent a story. Sit 
down. You are, at any rate, much agitated. 
Pardon me if I keep my finger on this electric 
bell. A letter ? Continue--if your ingenuity 
will permit you so to do." 

"The letter given to you by William Kent, 
who is on his death -bed," answered O'Fell, who 
realized that only promptness and truth could 
save him. 

"Indeed ? " said the other again. "This is 
interesting. I certainly was given a communica- 
tion, under seal, by the gentleman you name ; 
and William Kent will probably not last the night 
out. But what right have you to force yourself 
so monstrously into this matter between him 
and me ? " 

" The right of a. man on the brink of ruin/' 
was the hoarse and immediate response. " That 
letter is for you to forward to the police after 
the death of the man who wrote it. It contains a 
confession of guilt, which he had not the pluck 
to make while living. I am involved in that 
story. He wrote to me saying what he. had 
done. Here is his letter, which I received a few 
hours ago." 

" Really ? Put it on that chair, and then go 
and sit down again." o 

O'Fell obeyed. The other took up the letter 
and read it through.* 

" This is fresh to me," said he, after a long 
pause. " For some time, however, I felt that 
Kent had something on hi» mind. What is the 
crime to which he refers ? " 
.O'Fell licked his dry lips. 

" Or have I been listening to a lie ? " went on 
the minister, sternly. 

" Would to God you had ! " lamented the other, 
weakly. " It's a long and technical story, and 
I don't think you would understand it — being 
out of your line altogether. It was a bucket-shop 
affair. There were three of us in it." 

" Ah ! Some illegal transaction in stocks, 
I gather ? " 

" That's it," was the gloomy answer. 

" And fraud was committed. I see. How 
much did you profit by your dirty work ? " 

" Personally it meant about a thousand pounds, 
and about as much to the others." 

"Three thousand pounds wrung from people 
who, perhaps, trusted you with their all. I cau 
imagine nothing more atrocious. And so, in just 
and mortal fear of that secret being dragged to 
light, you forced your way into this room to 
steal the confession of a dying confederate ! " 
- "To implore your compassion ! " burst out 
the other, vehemently. " That wrong is years 
old. I have lived it down — or thought I had 
lived it down. If it crushes me now it crushes 
my wife and my children, who are innocent 
people, who are absolutely dependent upon me, 
who — who love me. How can that frightful 
calamity be a just atonement for my wrong ? 

Original from 






I will make what recompense is possible, but for 
God's sake spare me so overwhelming a calamity ! 
Do you not see/ Mr. Andrews, that Kent's action 
is that of a coward, a poltroon ? In death he 
does what he dared never do in life. I implore 
you to give me that letter, or to tear it up 
before my eyes. It can bring only utter misery, 
utter heartbreak. You are not dealing with a 
hardened felon. You who are a minister of 
mercy shcfw me mercy now ! " 

It was a cry of anguish which was bound to 
compel response. 
. " But it is a very sacred charge committed to 
my keeping," said the other, obviously moved. 
" I have pledged my word to William Kent to 
obey every direction which is contained in this 
packet." And the pastor took it from a drawer 
in the desk which his visitor had not dived into. 
" How can I surrender so vital a document to 
you without creating for myself endless doubts 
later on ? It is a very hard matter." 

" You will doubt in any case," flashed in O'Fell 
upon the softened voice. " What if you send 
me to prison and crush my family ? Won't you 
doubt then ? If you err, err on the side of 
pity. Let me atone by restoring that thousand 
pounds of soiled money." 

" That is nonsense. How can you hope to 
trace your victims ? " 

" I admit that that would be impossible. 
But I will freely and gratefully hand you the 
sum to devote to such charities as you are 
connected with." 

The other frowned at the eager proposal thrust 
upon him. " That sounds well, but it is not 
convincing," he answered, greatly perturbed. 
"It is a course which tempts, and which is 
therefore to- be distrusted. But perhaps you 
are, after all, wrong in supposing that the 
communication you have such cause to dread is 
inside this packet, hi the circumstances I feel 
I am right in making sure of the point before 
continuing the discussion." 

The reverend gentleman opened the packet 
with a paper-knife. He drew out two or three 
letters, which he examined. O'Fell looked at 
them with scorched eyes. 

" Here is one addressed to the Commissioners 
of Police," said the minister, gravely. He 
turned it over and over, his fingers trembling 
with emotion. " It must be as you said. I 
never thought to find myself placed in such a 
situation. I admit it is one to shrink from." 

O'Fell kept wiping his sweating palms. He 
burst out, in a voice which was on the verge of 
breakdown : — 

" Will you permit me to send you my cheque 
for the money, Mr. Andrews ? I will send it 
directly I get home to-night. If you will cash 
it in the morning and send me that letter I will 
be grateful to you to my dying hour. For God 
Almighty's sake, Mr. Andrews, show me mercy 
in this matter ! " 

" Tut, tut ! " said the other, peevishly. He 
walked up and down, considerably distressed. 
-i I will think it ovqr," he answered. 

"And kill me by the suspense/' groaned 

by LiGOgle 

O'Fell. " I cannot 'face the long hours of 
to-night unless you give me a word of promise- 
Will you send me that letter , directly you hear 
from me ? I'll go down on. my knees if you wish 

A long and tense silence ensued. Suddenly 
tjie minister faced his visitor. 

" I may be doing wrong," said he. " but I 
will err on the side of mercy, at any rate. It 
shall be as you wish. You can go. You had 
better leave by the way you came in. The house 
is locked up." 

O'Fell tried to speak his thanks, but a sob 
choked his voice. "Suddenly he found himself 
outside, in the fresh, pure air. \Vhat a load had 
fallen from his numbed heart 1 

He found a solitary taxi at the railway station, 
and the driver, under promise of a quadruple 
fee, whirled him back across London. He had 
come in an agony ; he returned exulting. 

He wrote his cheque before turning in, and 
posted it with his own hands. He slept at last : 
a long, dreamless slumber. 

Soon after noon on the following day a 
registered packet arrived, O'Fell tore it open. 
It contained Kent's letter to the policy. O'Fell 
read it from first line to last, and then he held 
each page, one by one, in a flame, and crushed 
the ashes between his palms. Thank God he had 
laid that spectre eternally ! 

It occurred to him that politeness called for 
an acknowledgment of the letter. He decided 
to go in person to express his thanks, for his 
gratitude was real. * 

A maid opened the hall -door of Furze Bank. 

" Is the minister at home ? " smiled O'Fell. 

" The which, sir ? " was the puzzled response. 

" The Reverend Mr. Andrews, girl," said 
O'Fell, with some asperity. 

" No such person lives here," was the tart 
answer. " Does you mean Mr. Lennill ? If so, 
you can't see him. He went away early and 
suddenly this morning ; goue for a 'oliday 
abroad. And Mr. Kent, his. friend, 'e went with 
him. They caught the ten-forty from Charing 
Cross. I can't tell you anything more." 

Suddenly O'Fell was vaguely aware that a 
hall-door had been closed, not without a decisive 
bang, in his astomshed face. He turned and" 
went off slowly — very slowly. At the wooden 
gate he came to a stop and stared down at the 
stones. He did not seem to be thinking at all ; 
his face expressed only a hopeless sort of stupe- 
faction ; yet certain sentences were darting 
through his half-numbed brain, fragmentary 
phrases such as " The scoundrel no more dying 
than myself ! . . . Got on my track ... he and 
Lennill . . . knew I had made money . . . 
planned it all between them . . . fifteen years 
since I saw Lennill . . . grey beard and 
glasses ..." 

O'Fell threw back liis head and made a noise 
in his throat ; and the servant-maid, who had 
opened the door and was watching his retreat, 
said audibly : — • 

" Lord ! What a man ! What a larf I " 


Original from 

The Spell of Greatness. 

These half-dozen portrait 5 
—each of which is composed 
of the tetters spelling the 
subject's name have been 
selected as the best 0/ the 
very targe number submitted, 
and we regre* that want of 
space prevents us from pub- 
lishing many other clever* 

Prizes have been, sent to 
the winners. 



Bj Tom HvTt, Bf>Mngford Anns, Lc*>*e Valtey, 
Tovil, Makfrtone, Kent. 

Vr- \Va<tu RKfj B. Eix;f- 
J f* ,t H *u-%e, Maidenhead 


By R, Camfhfxl Bapclav, y^Edina 

Street, Edinburgh. 


UV I hill.Y NUTTAU f 
Did*! Jury,^tfr- 

LITTLE TICH., Si>ai , .. «i aid Heati f Koad, coUiiQtt-ginal from 





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to come for a walk ? That's because you don't 
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Contents for February, 1919. 

The rif hu of translation and reproduction in the contents of this number are strictly reserved. 

















h. de vere stacpoole 
Elsie Janis ... 

lynn Doyle 

a. con an doyle ... 
keble howard ... 
charlie chaplin ... 
stacy aumonier ... 

harc5ld avery ... 
john t. tussaud ... 
a. yorick mcgill.,. 
edward cecil 
r. f. foster 

h. b. creswell ... 
henry £. dudeney 



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(See page 83.) 


5? Romance 


/frustrated by Tom Peddie 



RINCE SELM, the owner of the 
Gaston de Paris, was a gentle- 
man like his Highness of Monaco, 
with a passion for the deep sea 
and its exploration. The Holy 
Roman Empire had given his 
great-grandfather the title of 
prince, and estates in Thuringia 
gave him money enough to do as he pleased, 
an unfortunate marriage gave him a distaste 
for High Civilization, and his scientific bent and 
passion for the sea — inherited with a strain of 
oid Norse blood— did the rest. 

He had chosen well. Cards, women and wine, 
pleasure and the glittering things of life, all 
these betray one, but the sea, though she may 
kill, never leaves a man broken, never destroys 
his soul. 

But Eugene Henry*William of Selm for all his 
sea passion might have remained a landsman, 
for the simple reason that he was one of those 
thorough souls for whom Life and an Object are 
synonymous terms. In other words, he would 
never have made- a yachtsman, a creature 
shifting from Kiel to Cowes and Cowes to Naples, 
according to season, a cup-gatherer and club- 
house haunter. 

Exploration gave him an object and the 
Musee Oceanographique of Monaco inspiration ; 
limitless wealth supplied the means. 

The Gaston de Paris, an ocean-going steam 
yacht of nine hundred and fifty tons, was reckoned 
by those who knew her the finest sea-going yacht 
in the world. 

Ait of the engine-room the yacht was a little 

VoL liru. — 6L Copyright, 1919, by 

palace. Prince Selm would labour like any of 
his crew over a net coming in or in an emergency, 
but he ate off silver and slept between sheets of 
exceedingly fine linen; though a sailor, almost 
one might say a fisherman, he was always 
Monsieur le Prince, and though his hobby lay in 
the depths of the sea his intellect did not he 
there too* Politics, Literature, and Art travelled 
with him as mind companions, whilst in the 
flesh he often managed to bring off with him on 
his " outlandish expeditions " more or less 
pleasant people from the great world. 

Dinner was served on board the Gaston, de 
Paris at seven, and to-night the Prince and his 
four guests enjoyed their soup and held converse 
together light-heartedly, and with a spirit that 
had been somewhat lacking of late. Every sea 
voyage has its periods of depression due to 
monotony ; they had not sighted a vessel for 
over ten days, and this evening a glimpse of a 
ship under full sail — the Albatross — revealed 
through the break in the weather, had in some 
curious way shattered- the sense of isolation and 
broken the monotony. One of the four guests 
of the Prince was Mme. la Comtesse de Warens, 
an old lady with a passion for travel, a 
socialist and freethinker. She was eighty-four 
years of age, declared herself indestructible 
by time, and her one last ambition to be a 
burial at sea. She was one of those old women 
whose energy seems to increase with age ; tireless 
as a gnat, she was always the last in bed and the 
first on deck, though lying in her bunk half the 
night reading French novels, of which she had a 
trunkful, and smoTdng her eternal cigarettes. 

Beside her sat Txer :iueoe, CI60 de Bronsart, 
English on the mother's side and educated in 
H. dc Vcrc Stacpoolc 



England, a girl . of twenty, unmarried dark- 
haired, fragile, and beautiful as a dream* She 
was one of* the old nobility without dilution, 
yet, strangely enough, with money, for the 
Bronsarts, without marrying into trade, had 
adapted themselves to the new times so cleverly 
that Eugfcne de Bronsart, the last of his race, 
had retired from life leaving his only daughter 
and the last of her race wealthy, even by fixe 
standard of wealth set in Paris. She was a 
sriortswoman and, despite her .look of frailty, 
had led an outdoor life and possessed a nerve of 

Mme, de . Warens had brought the girl up 
after' she left school, had laboured over her and 
' found her labour in yain. Clfco had no leanings 
towards the People, and the opinions of her aunt 
seemed' to her a sort of disreputable madness 
bred of hypocrisy. Cifco looked on the lower 
classes just as* she looked on animals, beings 
with rignts of their own, but belonging to an 
entirely different order of creation, and one 
thing certainly could be said for her — she was 
honest in her outlook on life. t 

Next to her sat Dr. Epinard, the ship's 
doctor, a serious young man who spoke little, 
and the fifth at table was Legross, the sea 
painter, who had come for the sake of his health 
and to absorb the colours of the ocean,. The 
vision of the Albatross, with towering canvas, 
breasting the blue-green seas in an atmosphere 
of sunset and storm, was with him still as he 
sat listening to the chatter of the others and 
occasionally joining in. He intended to paint 
that pictured 

" Now tell me, Prince," Mme. de Warens 
was saying, " how long do you propose staying 
at this Kerguelen Land of yours ? " 

" Not more than a week,'* replied the Prince. 
" I want to take some soundings off the Smoky 
Islands, and I shall put in for a day on the 
mainland, where you can go ashore if you like, 
but I sha'n't stay herq long. It is like putting 
one's head into a wolf's mouth." 

" How is that ? " 

" Weather. You saw that sudden squall we 
passed through this evening, or rather you 
heard it, no doubt. Well, that's the sort of 
thing Kerguelen brews." 

" Suppose," said the astute old lady, " it 
"brewed one of those things, only much worse, 
and we were blown ashore ? " 

" Impossible." 

" Why ? " 

"Our engines can fight anything." 

" Are there any natives in this place ? " 

" Only penguins and rabbits." 

"Tell me," said Legross, "that three-master 
we saw just now, would she be making for 
Kerguelen ? " 

' ' Oh, no ; she must be out of her course and 
beating up north. She's not a whaler, and 
ships like that would keep north of the Crozets. 
Probably she was driven down by that big 
storm we had a week ago. We wouldn't be 
where we are only that I took those soundings 
■6uth of Marion Island." * 

Mile, de Bronsart shivered slightly. She had 

been silent up to this, and she spoke now with 
eyes fixed far away. 

" I don't know why,'.' said she; "perhaps it is 
what you., say about Kerguelen, or perhaps it 
was the, sight of that big ship all alone out there, 
but I feel " She stopped short, 


" That ship frightened me." 

" Frightened you ? " cried Mme. de Warens. 
"Why, Clfco. what is the matter with you to- 
night ? You who are never frightened. I'm 
not easily frightened, but ladmit I almost said 
my prayers in that storm, and you—- you were 
doing embroidery." 

" Oh, I am not frightened of storms or things 
in the ordinary way»" said the girl, half laughing. 
" Physical things have no power over rafe : an 
ugly face can frighten me more than the threat 
of a blow. It : is /a question of psychology . 
That ship produced on my mind a feeling as 
though I hail seen desolation itself, and some- 
thing worse." 

" Something worse r ! " cried Mifle.-'de Warens. 
"What can, be worse than desolation? " 

" I don't know," said Clfeo. " It also made me 
feel that I wanted to be far away from it and 
from here. Then; Monsieur le- Prince, with his 
story of desolate Kerguelen, completed the 
feeling. It is strong upon me now." 

. " You do not wish to go to Kerguelen, then ? " 
said the Prince, smiling, as he helped himself to 
the entrie that was being passed round. 

" Oh, monsieur, it is not a question of my 
wishes at all," replied the girl. 

" But, excuse me," replied the owner of the 
Gaston de Paris, "it is entirely a question of 
your wishes. We are not a cargo boat. Captain 
Lepine is on the bridge; he has only to go into 
his chart-houso, set his course for New Amsterdam . 
and a turn of the wheel will put our stern to the 

" No.* I will not have the course altered for 
me. I am quite clear upon that point. What 
I said was foolish and it would pain me more 
than I can tell to have it acted upon. I reaJly 
mean what I say." 

He looked at her for a moment and seemed to 
glimpse something of the iron will that lay at 
the heart of her beauty and fragility. 

" Listen ! " said the girl, a few moments later. 
" It seems to me that the engines are going 

" You have a quick ear, mademoiselle," said 
the Prince ; " they undoubtedly are. The captain 
has reduced speed. Kefguelen is before us, or 
rather on our starboard bow, and daybreak will, 
no doubt, give us a view of it We do not want 
to be too close to it in the dark hours, that is 
why speed has been reduced." 

Coffee was served at table and presently, 
amidst the fumes of cigarette smoke, the con- 
versation turned to politics, the works of Anatole 
France, and other absorbing subjects. One 
might have fancied oneself in Paris but for the 
vibrations of the propeller, the heave of the sea, 
and the hundred little noises that mark the 
passage on a &hip under way. 

1-ateir Mlie. do Binruiart found herself in the 




>kiri£-room alone with her host, Mmc. de 

having retired to her state-room and 

others gone on deck. 

Tii*; girl was doing some embroidery work 

h she had fetched from her cabin, and the 

at the pages of the Rnire 

aides. Presently he J 'id the book 

I was in earnest/' said he. 

11 How ? " she asked, glancing up from her 


" When I proposed altering the course. 
tdng would me more than to spoil .* 
plan of my own to please you/' 

** It is good of you to say that." she replied ; 
" -ill the same, I am %\&d I did not spoil your 
plan, not so much ior youi sake as mv own/' 

- How I 




"I would rather die than run away from 

" So you feared danger ? " 

" No, I did not fear it, but I felt it. I felt 4, 
premonition of danger. I did not say so at 
dinner. I did not want to alarm the others." 

He looked at her curiously for a moment, con- 
trasting her fragility and beauty with the some- 
thing unbendabie^hat was her spirit, her soul — 
call it what you will. 

" Well," said he* " your slightest wish is my 
law. I have been going to speak to you -for the 
last few. days. I will say what I wajit to say 
now. It is only four words. Will you marry 
me ? " 

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes full 
and straight. 

" No," said she; " it is impossible.'* 

" Why ? " 

" I have a very great regard for you — but " 

" You do not love me ? " 
" She said nothing, going on with her work 
" calmly as though the conversation was abo;ut 
some ordinary topic. 

" I don't see why you should," he weDt on; 
" but look around you— how many people 
marry for love nowadays — and those who do, 
are they any the happier ? I have seen a very 
great deal of the world, and I know for a fact 
that happiness in marriage has little to do with 
what the poets call love and everything to do 
with companionship. If a man and woman 
are good companions, then they are happy 
together; if not they are miserable, no matter 
how much they may love one another at the 

" Have you seen much of the world ? " She 
raised her eyes again as she asked the question. 
." Have you really seen anything of the world ? 
I do not mean to be rude, but this world of ours, 
this world of society that holds us all, is there 
anything real about it, since nearly everything 
in it is a sham ? Look at the lives we lead ; 
look at Parte and London and Rome. Why, the 
very language of society is framed to say things 
we do not mean." 

" It is civilization. How else would you have 

" I don't know," she replied; "but I do know 
it is not life. It is dishonesty. You say that 
the only happy married people are those who 
are good companions, that love does not count 
in the long run; and you are right, perhaps, as 
far as what you call the world is concerned. I 
only repeat that the thing you call the world is 
not the real world, for love is real, and love is 
not merely a question of good companionship. 
It is an immortal bond between two spirits and 
death cannot break it." 

" You speak as though you were very certain 
of a thing which, of all things, is most hidden 
from us." 

" I speak by instinct." 

" Weil," said the Prince, " perhaps you are 
right. We have left behind us the simplicity 
of the old world j^we have become artificial, our 
life is a sham — but what would you have and 
how are we to alter it ? We are all like pas- 


sengers in a train travelling to Heaven knows 
where, the seats are well-cushioned and the 
dining-car leaves nothing to be desired, but I 
admit the atmosphere is stuffy and the long 
journey has developed all sorts of unpleasant 
traits among the passengers. Well, what would 
you do ? We cannot get out.'* i 

" I suppose not," said she. * 

He rose and stood for a moment turning 
over some magazines lying on the table. He 
had received his answer and he knew instinc- 
tively that it was useless to pursue the business 

Then after a few more words he went on deck. 
The wind had fallen to a steady blow, but the 
sky was still overcast and the atmosphere was 
heavy and clammy and not consistent. It was 
as though the low-lying -clouds dipped here 
and there to touch the sea. Every now and 
then the Gaston de Paris would run into a wreath 
of fog and pass through it into the clear darkness 
01 the night beyond. 

In the darkness aft of the bridge nothing 
could be seen but the pale hint of the bridge 
canvas and a trace of spars and funnels now 
wiped out by mist, now visible again against 
the night. 

The Prince leaned on the weather • rail and 
looked over at the tumble and sud of the water 
lit here and there with the gleam of a port light, 
then he passed to the bridge. 

The wind was still steady, but the clouds had 
consolidated and the night was pitch-black. On 
the bridge the Gaston de Paris seemed driving 
into a solid wall of ebony. 

The Prince, after a glance into the binnacle, 
was preparing to go down the bridge steps when 
a cry from the look-out made him wheel round. 
Suddenly, and as if evolved by magic from the 
blackness, the vague spectre of a vast ship 
showed up ahead on the starboard WW making 
to cross their course. Thundering along under 
full canvas, without lights and seemingly blind, 
she appeared to be only a pistol-shot away. 

Then the owner of the Gaston de Paris did 
what no owner ought ever to do. Seeing 
destruction and judging that by a bold stroke it 
might be out-leaped, he sprang to the engine- 
room telegraph and flung the lever to full speed 



Left alone, Mile, de Bronsart finished the all 
but completed piece of embroidery in her lap. 
It did not take her five minutes. Then she held 
up the work and reviewed it with lips slightly 
pursed, then she rolled it up, rose, and went off 
to the state-room of Mme. de Warens to bid 
her good night. 

Madame was sitting up in her bunk reading 
Maurice BaITes , " Greco " ; the air of the place 
was stifling with the fumes of cigarettes, and 
the girl nearly choked as she closed the door 
and stood facing the old lady in the bunk. 

" Why don't you smoke ? — then you wouldn't 
mind it," cried trie latter, putting her book 
down arid taking off her glr^ses. " No, I won't 




have a port opened ; d'you want me to be blown 
out of my bunk ? Sit down." 

" No, I won't stay/' replied the other. " I 
just came to say good night — and tell you some- 
thing. He asked me to marry him." 

" Who— Selm ? " 

" Yes." 

" And what did you say ? " 

" I said "no/" 

" Oh, you did ! And what's the matter with 
him — I mean what's the' matter with you ? " 

M How ? " • 

" How ! The best match in Europe and you 
say ' no * to him — a man who could marry where 
he pleases and whom he pleased, and you say 
' no.' Good-looking, without vices, richer than 
many a crowned head, second only to the 
reigning families — and you say ' no.' " 

The old lady was working herself up. This 
admirer of Anacharsis Clootz and dilettante of 
Anarchism had lately possessed one supreme 
desire, the desire to have for niece the Princess 

" I thought you didn't believe in all that," 
said the girl. 

"All what ?", 

" Titles, wealth, and so forth." 

" I believe in seeing you happy and well- 
placed. I was not thinking of myself. Well, 
there, it's done ! There* is no use in talking any 
more, for I know your disposition. You are 
hard, mademoiselle, that is your failing — 
without real heart. It is the modern disease. 
Well, that is all I have to say. I wish you 
good night." 

She put on her spectacles again. 

" Good night," said the other. 

She went out, closed the door, and entered 
her state-room. 

It was the same as Mme. de Warens', only 
larger, a place to fill the mind of the old-time 
seafarers with the wildest surprise, for here was 
everything that a mortal could demand in the 
way of comfort and nothing of the stuffy up- 
holstery that the word " state-room " suggests 
to the mind of the ordinary traveller. 

Having closed the door she stood for a moment 
glancing at her reflection in the mirror. The 
picture in the mirror seemed to fascinate her as 
though it were the reflection of some stranger ; 
then, turning from the mirror, she sat down for 
a moment on the couch by the door. 

She felt disturbed. The words of Mme. de 
Warens had angered her, producing the effect of 
a false accusation to which one is too proud to 
reply; but -the momentary anger had passed, 
giving place to a craving for freedom and fresh 
air. The atmosphere of the state-room felt 
stifling: she would go on deck. Then she 
remembered that she was in a thin evening dress 
and that she would have to change. 

The two women shared a maid, and she was 
ia the act of stretching out her hand to the 
electric bell by the couch to summon the maid, 
when the craving to get on deck without delay 
became so strong that she rose, went into the 
dressing-room, and, without assistance, changed 
h£t gown for a tweed coat and skirt and her 

thin evening shoes for a pair of serviceable boots. 
Then she slipped on her oilskin and sou'wester 
and, coming back into the state-room, caught a 
momentary glimpse of herself in the mirror, a 
strange contrast to the elegant and black- 
gowned figure that had glanced at its reflection 
only ten minutes before. 

She was coming up the saloon companion-way 
when r the engines, easily heard from here, 
suddenly began a thunderous pow-wow ; the 
ship lurched forward and from the blackness of 
the open hatch above came a voice like the 
sudden clamour of sea-gulls. Then she was 
flung backwards and stretched, half-stunned, 
on the mat at the companion-way foot. 

For a moment she did not know in the least 
what had happened. She fancied She had 
slipped and fallen; then, as she scrambled on to 
her hands and knees, someone passed her, 
nearly treading on her, and rushed up the 
companion-way to the deck. It was the chief 
steward.. Rising and holding on to the rail she 
followed him. 

The deck was aslant, and in the windy black- 
ness of the night nothing was to be seen for a 
moment : but the darkness was terrific with 
voices, voices from forward of the bridge and 
voices from alongside, as though a hundred 
drunken sailors were yelling and blaspheming 
from a quay. 

For the tenth of a second the idea of being 
alongside a quay came to her with nightmare 
effect, heightened by a ruffling and booming 
from the sky above, a rippling and flapping and 
thundering like the sound of vast and tangled 

Then a blaze of light shot out, making day. 

The arc lamp of the foremast, always ready 
to be used for night work, had been run up and 
switched on. 

To starboard, and stern on to the Gaston de 
Paris, a great ship, within pistol-shot of the 
deck and with her canvas spilling the wind and 
thrashing and thundering, was dipping her bows 
in the sea. Men were fighting for the boats, 
and the stern was so high that more than half 
of the rudder showed like a great door swinging 
on its hinges. On the counter in bold letters 
the word 

showed, and to the mind of the gazer all the 
horror seemed focused in that calm state- 
ment, those commonplace letters written upon 

Clinging to the hatch coaming, she saw, now, 
as a person sees in a dream, sailors rushing and 
struggling aft along the slanting main deck. 
The engines had ceased working, but the dynamos 
were running on steam from the main boilers, 
and through the noises that filled the night the 
sewing-machine sound of them thrashed like a 
pulse. What had happened, what was happen- 
ing, she did not know. The great ship to 
starboard seemed sinking, but the Gaston de 
Paris seemed safe, except for the horrible slant 
of the decks ; she called out to the sailors, now 
clustered here and there by the boat davits, but 



Prince Selm, who was struggling aft along the 
slippery /Sloping deck, clutching at the bulwarks 
as he came ; he seemed like a man engaged in 
• some fantastic game — an unreal figure : now he 
; was on the deck on all fours, now up again, 
clutching men by the shoulders, shaking them, 
shouting. She could hear his voice. -The star- 
board boats were unworkable owing to the list 
to port. She did not know that; she on\^ knew, 
- and now for the first time, that the Gaston de 
Paris was in fearful danger. And instantly the 
thought came to her of the old woman below in 
her bunk* and, on the thought, the mad instinct 
to rush below and save her. "" 

Jiolding on to the woodwork of the hatch, 
she was crawling towards the opening when 
blackness hit her like a blow between the eyes. 
The arc lamp had gone out, the dynamos had 
ceased running. 

On the stroke of the darkness the Gaston de 
Paris heeled slightly deeper, flinging her to her 
knees, and as she hung, clutching the wood- 
work, she heard her name. 

It was the Prince's voice. She answered, and 
at once on her answer a hand seized her cruelly 
as a vice. It caught her by the shoulder. She 
felt herself dragged along, buffeted, lifted, cast 
down — then nothing more. 



The boat tackle of the Gaston de Paris was the 
latest patent arrangement for lowering boats in 
a hurry, every boat was provisioned, and the 
water casks left nothing to be desired ; there 
were frequent inspections and boat drills, yet 
when the Gaston de Paris foundered only three 
souls were saved. 

The starboard boats, owing to the list, could 
not be lowered at all ; every boat had its canvas 
cover on, which did not expedite matters ; the 
patent tackle developed defects in practice, and 
to crown all the men panicked owing to the 
sudden darkness that fell on them like a. clap on 
the extinction of the electric light. The port 
quarter-boat, into which the girl had been flung, 
had two men in her and was lowered away by 
Prince Selm, the doctor, and the first officer; 
panic had herded the rest of the hands towards 
the pinnace and forward boats, and the pinnace, 
overcrowded, was stoved by the sea as soon as 
she was water-borne. The other boats never 
left their davits, they went with the ship when 
the decks opened and the boilers saluted the 
night with a column of coloured steam and a 
clap of thunder that resounded for miles. 

The whole tragedy from impact to explosion 
lasted only seven minutes. 

The two men in the boat with the girl had 
shoved off like demons and taken to the oars as 
soon as the falls were released. If they had not, 
being so short-handed for the size of the boat, 
they-mmld have been stoved ; as it was they 
were nearly wrecked by a baulk of timber from 
the explosion. It missed them by a short two 
.fathoms, drenching them with spray, and then 
the night shut down, pierced by voices, voices 
of men swimming and crying for help. 

The rowers did not know each other. The 
bow oar shouted to the stern, " Is that you, 
Larsen ? " 

" No, Bompard. And you ? " 

" La Touche." 

They could see, now, the waves like spectres 
evolving themselves from the night, a vision 
touching the very limit of dimness, and now, as 
they entered a mist patch — nothing* The 
voices to port and starboard were ceasing, one 
by one — being blotted out. Then silence fell, 
broken only by the sound or the oars. La 
Touche shouted and shouted again, but there 
came no response. Then came Bompard 's 
voice : "Is that hooker gone, tod ? " 

" Curse her, yes. I was the look-out. Sailing 
without lights." 

" This woman seems dead." 

" It's the girl. I heard her squeal out as they 
hove her in. Let her lie. Well, this is a start ! " 

" A black job, but we're out of it, so far." 
' *' Aye, as. far as we've got — as far as we've got. 
Well, there's no use rowing, there's no sea to 
hnrt 'her—Met her tosS.*" 

The oars came in and the fellows jslithered 
from their seats on to the bottom boards. 
Ballasted so the boat' rode easy. They lay like 
shivering dogs, grumbling and cursing, and then, 
as they lay; the talk went on. 

" Mon Dieu ! What* a tiling — but we've grub 
and water all right." 

" Aye, the boats ar^ all right for that." 

There was a long silence and then came 
Bompard 's voice ; " Things happen and what 
is to be must be. Well, they're all gone a 
hundred fathoms deep and here we are drifting 
about with a dead woman. I'd sooner have any 
other cargo if I was given my choice." 

" Sure she's dead ? " 

" Aye, she's dead sure enough by the way she's 
lying ; not a breath in her." 

Neither man suggested that she should be 
cast over. She ballasted the boat, and for 
Bompara she was something to lean against. 

Then, after a while, conversation died out. 
They had nothing more to talk about. The 
boat rode easy. There was nothing to do, and 
these men, blunt to life and sea-hardened so 
that to them all things came in the hour's work, 
nodded off, La Touche curled up in the bow. 
Bompard with his grizzled head on the breast of 
Mile, de Bronsart. 



The girl was not dead as Bompard imagined ; 
she had been stunned and had passed from that 
condition into the pseudo-sleep that follows 
profound excitement. 

She was awakened by a flick of spray on her 
face, a touch from the great sea that had claimed 
her for its own. 

Lying as she was she could see nothing but 
the ribbed sides of the boat, the grey sky above, 
and a gull with domed wings and down-curved 
head, poised, as though suspended on the end 
of a string. It screamed at her, shifted its 
position, and then passed, as though blown away 




: She sat up. Bompard had drawn 

away from her and was lying curled up On his 

ie ; La Touche on his back, forward, showed 

but his knees ; across the gunwale lay 

the sea, desolate in the dawn, turbulent, 

1 and mournful as a view of slated roofs 

.e had never seen the sea so close befc 
had never smelt its heart and the savour of 
bitter, fresh, new and ever-renewed 
wring wind. 
The whole tragedy of the night was alii 
her mind as a picture, but it seemed the picture 
of what another person had seen ; her past life. 

taps of the bath in the I m adjoining her 

cabin, the silk cu of her hunk, the hundi 

and one trifles that made for comfort and es 
She saw the cabin servants and the face of the 
chit: , pale-faced man* a typical 

maitte d' hotel ; the dinner of the night before, 
where the people seemed to her ms, and 

the food, table equipage, knives, forks, and 
SpOOIia realities, 

All these thi 1 forth against the blank - 

1 and desolation :i, the sea she could 

touch by dipping her hand over the gunwale, tho 

sea that had stripped her of everything but life 

and body, the dress and boots she wore, and the 



emed vague and uttcon- 
' person. 
Tins v ajity 

ut as that which the soul 
kening after death. 

1 old 
te great yacht was gone and e 
I her; yet tl from its 

ity f failed to tsell full 

in a flash, and horribly clearly, 
her immedi-t ' environr 
uifc L'ttl-i Hi 

yellow oihkin coat that covered her. Her li. 
resting on the gunwale show - « ill 

wore her rings, exquisite rings of emerald, ruby, 
and diamonds, fresh washed with spray, "1 
I her ey mind, swaying just as the 

i to the swell, tried to reconstruct 
and to 
At this moment Bompard, si 
in his sleep, roused' hii it up. 

rough, weaf face wa 

for a moment, +h*w Ms **yp«= fell Jrl and 

ion MBBNPljMtMpto him, 
^WUflMlitJ ' cv»ed the old feller 



addressing some unseen person. " Tis all true, 

then " Then, as though remembering 

something, " But how is * mademoiselle 
alive ? " 

"' I don't know." said the girl, unconsciQus as 
to what he was referring to. "I know you. I have 
seen you often on deck. Who is the other man ? 
Oh. is it possible that we are the only people 
left ? " 

Bompard, without replying, swung his head 
round, then he rose and came over the thwarts. 
He caught La Touche by the leg. 

" La Touche — rouse up — the lady is alive. 
It's me. BoxntJard." 

La Touche sat up, his hair tousled, his face 
creased ; he seemed furious about something 
and, pushing Bompard away, stared round and 
round at sea and sky as if in search of someone. 

Ut Bon Dieu! " cried La Touche. " The cursed 
boat ! " He spat as though something bitter 
were in his mouth and wiped his lips with the 
back of his hand. He did not seem to care "a 
button whether the lady were alive or not. He 
had been dreaming that he was in a tavern, just 
raising a glass to his mouth, and Bompard had 
awakened him to this^ 

The girl could not repeat ' the, question to 
which there seemed no answer; she crawled into 
the stern-sheets and, sitting there, half-bent, 
watched the two men. 

La Touche, rising and taking his seat on a 
thwart and looking everywhere but in the 
direction of the girl, as though ashamed of some- 
thing, began cutting up some tobacco in a 
mechanical way, whilst Bompard, on his knees, 
was exploring the contents of the forward locker. 
La Touche was a fair-haired man, younger than 
Bompard, a melancholy-looking Individual who 
always seemed gazing at the worst of things. 
He spoke now as the girl drew his attention to 
something far away in the east, something 
sketched vaguely in the sky as though a picture 
lay there beyond the haze. 

" Aye. that's Kerguelen," said La Touche. 

Bompard, on his knees, and with a Maconochie 
tin in his left hand, raised his head and looked. 

" Aye. that's Kerguelen," he said. 

The girl, with her hand shading her eyes, was 
still looking. 

" Can we reach the land ? " said she. 

" Why, yes, mademoiselle," said Bompard; 
" the wind is setting towards there and we have 
a sail. I'm going to step the mast now when 
I've taken stock — well, we won't starve. The 
tub is provisioned for a full crew for a fortnight 
— water too ; we won't starve, that's a fact. 
La Touche, get a move on and help me with the 

" I'm coming," grumbled La Touche. 

Bompard was munching a biscuit he had 
taken from one of the bread bags as he worked. 
She noticed the bag, its texture, and the words 
"Traversal — Toulon" stamped on it; the Macdh- 
ochie tin which he had placed on a seat and 
a tin of beef with a Libby label held her eyes as 
though they were things new and extraordinary. 
They were. They were food. She had never 
seen food before, food as it really is, the barrier 

between life and death, food naked and stripped 
of all pretence. 

Bompard, coming aft with the sheet, shipped 
the tiller, and, taking his seat by the girl, pnt 
the boat before the wind. LasTouche, who had 
taken his 'seat on the after-thwart, was busy 
with the tin of beef ; the girl scarcely noticed 

" Weil, it's beef," said La Touche; who had 
managed to open the Libby tin; "it might be 

He dug out a piece with his knife and presented 
it to the girl with a biscuit ; then he helped 
Bompard and himself, and scrambled for* 
ward, leaving his beef and biscuit on the thwart, 
and reappeared with a pannikin of water; it 
was handed to the lady first. 

The sun was well risen now, the clouds were 
high and breaking, and the far-away land showed 
up, vast in the distance, with a white line of 
snow-covered peaks against the sky, desolate as 
wU&n Kerguelen first sighted them. i 

♦ Cido, with her eyes fixed across the leagues of 
tumbling, tourmaline-tinted sea, almost forgot 
the others. That was the place where the wind 
was bearing "them to, a place where there, was 
nothing. Neither hotels nor houses nor huts 
nor rAen nor women, a place where no landing- 
stage would receive them, no voice welcome 
them. Her throat worked for a second con- 
vulsively as she battled * with the quite new 
things that the far-off mountains were telling 
her. „ 

It was now, and not till now, that she recognized 

% fully what Fate had done to her. It was now, 

and not till now, ttytt she saw Time before her as 

a thing from which all the known features had 

been deleted. 

" Mademoiselle's bath is qjrite ready." 

" Mademoiselle, the first gong has sounded." 

Oh, the day — the day with its hundred phases 
and divisions, the breakfast hour, the luncheon 
hour, the hour that brought afternoon tea, the 
dresses that went with each phase, the emotions 
and interests, and changing forms of being, the 
day which made a person change to its light and 
the person of ten o'clock in the morning quite 
different from the person of noon — this thing 
which we talk of as the day appeared before her 
now as what it really is, life itself, as civilized 
men know life, a tiling outtide ourselves yet of 
ourselves, and without which the circling of the 
sun is as the circling of a pointer on a blank 
dial — this thing was gone. 

In the few hours since daybreak quarter-deck 
and fo'c'sle had vanished. They had become 
welded into one community, all equal, and the 
lady was no longer the lady. There was no 
hint of disrespect, no hint of respect. They 
were all equal, equal sharers in the chances of 
the sea. 

And now, away in the distance and leagues 
from the coast they were approaching, vast 
islands disclosed themselves suddenly through 
the sea haze, standing like giants waist-deep in 
the ocean, whilst the coast itself with its cliffs 
and rocks ol black bfe&Ut and dolerite showed 





dear, extraordinarily clear, with every detail 
defined in the sunlight. 

The coast was ferocious, and the whole country 
from the sea foam to the foothills looked tumbled 
and new. with the newness of infinite antiquity. 
The last thunders of creation seemed scarcely to 
have died away, the last throe scarcely to have 
ceased, leaving million-ton rock cast on rock, and 
the new, sheer-cut cliffs spitting back their first 
taste of the bitter sea. 

" There is nowhere to land," said the girl. 
She was shuddering as a dog shudders when 

" Aye, it's a brute beast of a place," said 
Bompard. " Well, we must nose along op^the 
look-out. There's no coast but hasn't some 
landing- place where a boat can push in. Y'see, 
it's not like a ship. A boat can go where a 
ship can't." 

They had drawn nearer shore, so that the boom 
of the swell in the caves and on the rocks came- 
to them with the crying of the shore birds ; 
/ passing a headland like a vast lizard they opened 
a beach curved like the new moon and seven 
miles from horn to horn. ' 

" There's our landing-place," cried Bompard; 
" big enough to pick and choose from." 

" Lord ! " shouted La Touche. " Look over 
there — moving rocks ! " 

He pointed half a mile away to seaward. 

Bompard looked. 

" Those aren't rocks, they're whales," said he. 

A pair of whales showed, standing up, a male 
and female courting, a miraculous sight, as 
though they had entered a world where the 
original things of life still moved and had their 
being untroubled by man and untouched by 

bompard shifted the helm and the boat, 
heading for the shore and no longer running 
before the wind, moved less easily, shipping an 
occasional dash of spray. 

The change of movement, the dash of spray, 
the altered course were to the girl like the turning 
of a corner. Running with the wind as they had 
been, and with a parallel shore, the boat was the 
world and the coast and islands a panorama. 
With the twist of the -helm Reality made the 
coast a destination. Up to this moment the 
uncertainty of whether they could land had 
held her mind ; up to this moment all sorts of 
vague possibilities, the chance of meeting a 
ship, the chance of being blown out to sea, the 
chance of this or that had come between her and 
the realization of the fact that this prison was 

The monstrosity of the idea stood fully 
revealed only now on that beach where there 
was nothing but sand, nothing but rocks, nothing 
but gulls. Close in now, Bompard let go the 
sheet and they unstepped the mast, the boat 
rocking in the trough of the swell. Then they 
got the oars out. 

As they bent to their work, over the creak of 
the leather in the rowlocks the rumble and fume 
of the_seven-mile beach came mixed with the 
yelping and mewing of the gulls. The boat 
made slow progress, then a few yards from the 

surf line it hung for a moment till the rowers 
suddenly gave way and, moving like a released 
arrow, she came on the crest of a wave ; then the 
oars came in with a crash and the two men, 
tumbling out, dragged her nose high and dry. 
They helped the girl out, and as they pulled the 
boat higher she stood, the wind flicking her 
oilskin coat about her and the spindrift blowing 
in her face. 



The great beach of Kerguelen shows above 
tide mark long stretches where no sand is, only 
rock. This is the breeding-place of the sea 
elephant. Half-way between the lizard point 
and the point farther to the east a river comes 
down disemboguing through three mouths ; on 
the banks of this river is the seal nursery, where 
in summer the young sea elephants tumble and 
play and take their swimming lessons, whilst 
the mothers lie on rocks and the fathers fish and 
hunt and fight in battles, the roaring of which 
resounds for miles. Here the penguins drill and 
hold councils and law courts, and marry and get 
divorced and hold political meetings ; here the 
rabbits play and the terns forgather; and here 
the winds that blow from everywhere but the 
east hunt and yell and pile ' in winter a twenty- - 
foot sea that breaks in seven miles of thunder 
under seven miles of spray thick as the smoke 
of battle. ' 

Duck and teal haunt the place, and gulls* of 
nearly every known kind snow it and flick it 
with movement. Yet above the thunder, of the 
waves and the cries of the birds, and ^e 
shouting of the winds when they blow, there 
hangs a silence — the silence of the remote and 
prehistoric. The living world of men seems cut 
off from here by far-away doors and for ever. 

After supper they had explored the cave 
mouths in the cliff opposite to where the boat 
had beached. There were three caves just here. 
One was impracticable owing to water drip \ 
from the roof, but the other two, floored with 
hard sand, were good enough for shelter. The 
men had stowed the provisions and themselves 
in the westernmost, giving the girl the other 
and the boat sail for a pillow. 

It was old Bompard who thought of the latter. 
La Touche seemed to have no thought for anyone 
or anything but Himself. He grumbled all the 
time during supper, grumbled at the fact that 
there was no stuff to make a fire with, that they 
had nothing warm to drink, that some time soon 
their tobacco must run out. It seemed to Cl£o, 
as she lay with her head on the hard sailcloth 
and her body on the hard sand, covered with 
the oilskin coat which she had taken off to use 
as a blanket, that through the league-long 
rumble of the surf she could hear him grumbling 
still. She did not care. Hard though the floor 
was she did not mind, she was chloroformed, 
chloroformed by the air of Kerguelen. The air 
that fills the lungs with life, keeps a man going 
all day with an energy and buoyancy unknown 
elsewhere, and then fella Um with sleep. 

She awole whem the whale birds had ceased 




crying, just after dawn, awoke fresh and new 
and full of Me. She felt none of that troubled 
surprise which comes when the mind has to 
adjust itself to the new situation on awakening 
for the first time after a great disaster. It was 
as though her mind had already adjusted itself 
and discounted everything. 

She rose up and leaving the oilskin coat and 
sou'wester on the floor of the cave, came out 
on to the beach. 

The fine weather still held and the day was 
strong now, lighting the bea^h, the sea, and the 
distant islands through a sky of high, grey, 
eastward-drifting clouds. The boat lay where 
it had been pulled up, and legions of birds were 
flitting and blowing about and stalking on the 
sands as far as eye could reach, 

She came to the cave where the men were. 
Bompard and La Touchc, lying on their backs, 
might have been dead but for the sound of their 
snoring. Bompard was lying with his wrist 
across liis eyes. La Touche with both hands 
beside him clenched. The tins of beef and the 
bread bags showed vaguely in the gloom behind 

She stood foT a moment watching them, and 
then, turning* she came down to the boat lying 
high and dry on the sand. She was trying to 
realize that on the morning of the day before 
yesterday at this hour she had been lying in her 
bunk on board the Gaston A Paris t to realize this 
and also the fact that her present position seemed 
scarcely strange. 

She ought, so she told herself* to tie astonished 
at what had happened and to be bewailing her 

fate, yet* looking back now over yesterday and 
the day before, everything seemed part of a level 
and logical sequence, almost like the events of a 
stormy day on board ship. The tragedy of the 
destruction of the Gaston, only partly experienced, 
could not be fully felt. 

Standing by the boat she tried to realize it 
and failed, tried to grasp what she knew to be 
the horror and pity of it, and failed. She was 
neither hard nor insensible, -she simply could not 
grasp it. 

And her position here, with two rough men. 
very little food, and little chance oi escape : how 
she would have pitied herself a few days ago 
could she have foreseen I Yet here, with the 
firm sands under her feet, and the wind blowing 
in her face, reality, instead of hurting her as it 
had done in the boat on awakening yesterday 
morning, soothed her and reassured her. Every- 
thing seemed firm again, and the fear that the 
ugly coast had raised in her mind had vanished. 

She came along the beach looking at the gulls, 
turned over huge star-fish, and picked up kelp 
ribbons to examine them. Half a mile or so 
from the cave she was about to turn back when 
her eye caught a strange appearance on the sea* 
hundreds and hundreds of moving points draw- 
ing in to the shore, white and black points like 
a shoal of fish only half -submerged. It was a 
fleet of swimming biids. 

She sat down on the sand to watch as they 
took the shore with a rush through the foam. 
Then, safely beached, the fleet became an army 
of penguins. She had seen pictures of penguins, 
so she knew what they, were, and she bad read 




Anatoie France's " Penguin Island " ; these, 
then, were the real things, and she watched them 
fascinated as one who sees story land taking 
visible and concrete form. 

TIxe penguins iormed line, broke into com- 
panies, drilled a bit, and £hen began to move up 
the beach. * ' 

The figure of the girl did not seem to disturb 
them in the least. 

One company passed to the left, ope to the 
right, whilst that immediately fronting her 
halted a few feet away and saluted her, bowing 
like tittle old-fashioned men in black swallow- 
tail coats and * immaculate shirt . fronts, little 
old-fashioned* men with sharp, quizzical eyes, 
polished, humorous, polite, and entirely friendly. 

The company on the right wheeled to examine 
her as did the company on the left, so that she 
found herself almost in a hollow square. Wher- 
ever she turned there were birds bowing to her* 
or things in the semblance of birds, absolutely 
fearless, so close that she could have touched 
them had she carried a walking-stick. 

She rose up to allow them to pass, and they. 
went on like mechanical, things wound up and 
released, forming line again and seemingf to 
forget her. 

As she came back along the beach her mind 
was battling with a problem that had suddenly 

N risen. She had neither brush nor comb nor 
glass. Her hair was beautiful, and she loved it. 
Her face was beautiful, but she did not love it f 
it was herself: she could not view it from an 
indepencfent standpoint ; but she could view her 
hair almost as impartially as a dress, and she 
loved it with the strange passion that women 
have for things of texture. 

The hair of Cleo de Bronsart had been waited 
upon like a divinity by many a priestess in the 
form of a maid. It had been dressed and 
shampooed and. treated by artists and adepts: 
the hours oi brushing alone^if put together would 
have made a terrific total. The result was 
perfection, and even now, after all she had 
gone through, it showed scarcely disarranged, 
lustrous and beautiful,' dressed viith' artful 
simplicity in the Greek style, and outlining the 
perfect curves of her head. 
. The wind was blowing now in gusts from the 
sea, x but she scarcely noticed it as she walked, 
facing the problem that shipwreck had put 
before her, a problem 'the first of a long queue 
ranging from soap to a change of garments. 

She was fighting it, and at the same time 
battling, with the strengthening wind, when 
suddenly something sprang on her with the yell 
of a tiger and flung her on the sand, pinning 
her there. 

(To be continued.) 


(The Fourth of the 8eries.) 
Stncb mortal man first hoisted sail, 
What Bailor told bo Bad a tale ? 

1. Here rival fleets in deathly Btmggle met ; 
It was B.C., and not A.D. as yet. 

2. The prototype of Haidee, she supplied 
Help to a fugitive who else had died. 

3. A constellation and a fell disease ; 

Strange that one word should serve for both of these 1 

4. Six cannot ever be confused with seven. 
But two is sometimes not unlike eleven. 

6. A pirate ship, she vanquished many a foe ; 
Her final doom wMat Briton does not know ? ^ 

flu Shun the loud pedal when this piece you play y 
Tie calm and peaceful as the close of day. 

7. An English river here will come to view, 

Its syllables in number only two. KING COLE. 

Aoaikst his theories though we kick, 
Yet we were all once up a stick. 

1. Phenomenon of mind and brain, 
Foretells the future, some maintain. 

2. In Shakespeare'may this word be sought ; 
There's plenty, tut it ends in nought. 

3. In argument we this employ, 
Tis all about a father's boy. 

4* A changing thinp, but yet His found 
ThtA facts it tells by turning round, 

5. A foolish adjective is seen 

By putting palindrome between. 

6. Tnia present for hi* lovely queen 

Gave Strephon in the meadows green. ALFIL. 

Answers to Acrostics 58 and 59 should be addressed to 
the Acrostic Editor, The Strand Magazine, Southampton 
Street, Strand, London, W,C2, and must arrive not later 
than by the first post on February Sth. 

The solution to each acrostic must be on a separate piece 
of paper ; a second answer may be sent to any or every 
light, and should be written at the side of the first one ; at 
the foot of each solution every solver should write his pseudonym 
and nothing else. This pseudonym should be limited to one 


to No. 57. 






a r 
















r a s b 


Notes. — Light 2. Real. 6. Count Julius Andrassy, 

For the second and fifth lights of No. 54 other birds 
and Italian towns apply, besides the acrostician's words, 
and they must be accepted as correct. 

Result op the Ninth Series. 

Three of the six acrostics appear to have been very 
difficult, the correct answers being very few in number. 
The maximum score for the whole series was 43. Zyme, 
who scored 42, gains the first prize, and will receive a 
cheque for three guineas ; Flapper, Somerford, Wals, and 
Yoko scored 40, and are awarded two guineas each ; and 
Cobweb, who scored 39, gains a prize of one guinea. Each 
of these six Bolvers will be ineligible for a prize in the 
tenth series now running. Their real names and addresses 
are : — 

Zyme, Mr. J. W. Pulsford, 57, Deauville Road, Clapham, 
S.W.4 ; Flapper, Mr. John Charrington, Shenley Grange, 
Barnet, Herts; Somerford, Mrs. Roper Tyler, Barton 
House, Tetbury, Glos ; Wals, Mr. W. Stradling, Norris 
Hill, E. Cowes, I.W. ; Yoko, Mr. F. Rawson, 10, Richmond 
Mansions, Lcndeu, E/W.5 ; Cobweb, Mr. C. W. Cooper, 
131, Trinity Roaul, lipped fl\*rfing t 8 W.17. 

ATHER should I say, pag< s from 
"ouj F1 lite, for even in print I 
do not care to be separated from 
one to whom I really owe what 
success has fallen to me— my 
i nother, Indeed, it is not pos- 
sible to writ*: of myself without 
associating my mother with all 
I fiay* Our relationship i* more than that of 
mother and daughter. We are partners — she 
managing-director of the firm J ami and Co. — 
I the partner who displays the goods. 

It is an ideal partnership — for this reason. 
The managing-director was not only the founder 
of the firm, but she was the first to discover the 
value of the goods, and to place in her partner's 
way every facility for developing and improving 
their quality. There is no man like my mother. 
She was my first critic and my first admirer. 
To-day, she is my most severe critic and — still 
my admirer. 

I suppose I was what people call a precocious 
child* An original child is generally stamped 
precocious by those who do not know the real 
meaning of the word, So far from being pre- 
(/K,iou% however, I was really a very ordinary 
child — my managing^irector will probably dis- 
agree with that, for 1 never knew a mother who 
ha/i an ordinary ehild. I had one or two rather 
unconventional ideas, however, which, to my 
great latittf action, and. as it afterwards proved, 
to my great benefit, I was allowed to develop, 

I have said that it was my mother who first 
discovered me, for I was only a fcw T hours old 
when, with fijperb impudence, I began to mimic 
and entertain her- And that I suppose is the 
rraaod why **he allowed me, without restraint 
and punishment, to mimic whom I Hkcd, 

Of course, every child is a mimic, more or less. 
My bump of mimicry, however, seemed to be 

abnormally developed. 1 
was never so happy as when 
trying to copy the voices 
and gestures of people I 
saw and came into con- 
tact with, much to the 
disgust, no doubt, of some 
of my relatives. My first 
serious attempt, however, 
was the outcome of a visit 
to the theatre, when I saw 
Edna May in " The Belie 
of New York/' before she 
came to London. As soon 
as I got home I attempted 
an imitation with a palm- 
leaf fan tied around my 
lace. Then I went to my 
mother's room — she was ill 
at the time — and sang the 
chorus of 4 * Follow On," 
much to her delight. After 
that I used to entertain the 
family with various imita- 
tions, and was allowed al- 
most without restraint to 
mimic whom I liked and 
when I liked, without fear 
of punishment, 

1 enjoyed myself hugely, particularly when at 
seven years of age I was taken to a social gather- 
ing at the White House, and invited to entertain 
the company. Without the least nervousn? ^ 
I audaciously mimicked the President (President 
McKinlry) before his Cabinet, much to the delight 
oi Mm self and his colleagues. 

I don't think, however, thai I should have the 
audacity to mimic President Wilson, alth<Mi£h 
he would,^t^l^^l|yf^-^reatly tickled with the 

Photo. Am'jfcftn d 
Bam.'* rid. 





able to invent such a good problem as that propounded by President 

Wilson, when in one of his merry moods. His hypothesis was this l ■ 

A young man has come to call on, a young woman, and they 

arc sitting somewhat stiffly in the parlour waiting for mother to 

come down and act as chaperon. While they arc waiting, the' 

young woman's nose begins to bleed, and the young man remembers 

having Iward that a piece of cold metal applied to the back of the 

neck will stop the trouble. He looks around the room and sees 

the key of the door, and in his embarrassment he 

locks the door 111 getting the key out. He applies the 

key to l lie young woman's neck, but Just at that 

moment the mother comes down and, finding the door 

locked, demands entrance. In his excitement the young 

man drops the key down the young woman's back. "The 

question then was : -l What would you do if you were 

^ the yourtg man ? -' Wilson's answer was, "Get the l^ey 

at any cost" This, however, by the way. 

It was Cissie Loft us, the greatest of all mimics, in my 

i what a keen sense of humour he possesses, 
how much he appreciates a joke. We like 
on that act o ant. 

m may have heard of the game of impossible 

Jerns« Mother and I were rather fond of 

iog it. You invent some situation- the 

e absurd, the more fun — placing your 

pie in a portion of embarrassment and 

en you ask p "What would you have done 
ne sam^ circumstances 
"1 to the present, ho we 



9 2 


opinion, who ultimately inspired me with 
the idea oi becoming a mimic. My first 
stage appearance was as a pocket edition 
of Cissie Loft us, and since then I have 
impersonated some hundred and twenty 
artistes. s 

A discussion once overheard outside 
the Palace Theatre regarding my real, 
nationality led to one of the most 
charming of compliments regarding my 

•' Bjpb, she's a gem I I'm glad she's 
Irish ! " 

,l Na, na, ma laddie, I tell ye she s guid 

Scots 1 " 

"Non, non t messieurs ; e'est une Parisi- 
enne, satts doute" 

Whether the trio ever really settled 
the matter, I do not know. 

My impersonations have ranged from 
Harry Lauder to Sarah Bernhardt, and 



although my 
portrayal of 
the Scotch 
comedian is, 
perhaps, the 

pride to the 
occasion when 
the great 
French trage- 
diennc told 
me that she 
thought nvv 
mimicry of her 
wal life-like 
and that £ 
ought to be- 
come a great actress, 
But, really, I don't 
like tragedy, I love 
happiness and sun- 
shine, and surely thut 
is all we wish for ! 

I tove dollars, too. 
A shocking, mercen- 
ary confession, i<m r t 
it ? But who aiuom* 
those who read these 
lines, ii honest with 
themselves, are not 
similarly afflicted ? 
I am fond of the 
com fort, I n xuries , and 
nice things money can 
secure, and of the 
opportunity It gives 
one of helping the 
less fortunate. 


TWO CHARMING PORTRAIT 50^^^^ Q p ^| f_ Hf.^*"* 




Talking of money 
takes me back to 
the story of my in- 
t roduction to the 
London public. For 
several years I had 
ft pent part of my 
holidays in Eng^ 
land, and I 
must con- y 
fess that I / '.: 

Thus it came about that I made my first 
bow to a London audience in " The Passing 
Show. 1 ' Four days al^er my dibut, Sir 
Alfred Butt came to mc and 1?aid : — 

" Go ahead, we can stand the American 

I felt when I made my return visit to 
London last year to appear in " Hullo, 
America ! " that 1 was bringing the States 
with me. I have had a great time with 
our boys over here. They have 
descended upon me in scores, at the 
Palace and elsewhere, just to 
shake hands and talk about 
nothing in particular and every- 
thing i n ge ncral . They ha ve 
said all sorts of nice 
things to me and 
about me* but 
really it is th*y 
who have pro- 
vided me with 
pleasure and 
me nt. 

Oh, the 
stories and 




Ftoto. Arbulhtufc 

to captivate tho English as they 
had captivated me* I went 
round to all the shows, and 1 
noticed the public liked dancing 
and romantic episodes with 
humorous songs, and that, above 
and beyond all, what is called the 
very English entertainment must 
be simple, direct, and refined. 

It seemed to me that most of 
the things I liked doing could 
be poured into a revue, and so 
I told Mr. Butt, as he them was. 
The American salary I had been 
petting* however, was too much, 
^o we shook hands ■ 

with mutual regrets. 

Then J felt that an 
H n g ] ish e nco re was 
even worth the loss of 
a week's salary, so it £-' 
ixung up to me. I su^- / 
jested an unpaid week 
on trial, and if that 
succeeded, I would be 
worth what my other managements paid. 
called it a sporting oiler, and besides 





[ itini-i,. 

ducing my own songs I was allowed to suggest 
improvements and largely alter the show. 

experience? I have heard I I must certainly 

Urn? I ^J^l^flT 2? "rize ta*K 
stury U£Uk EIm Tli^JfiSt^fflfieUi chaplain, just 



alter one of General Allenby s great victories 
in Palestine. 

" Weil, boys, the Australians are in Beth- 
lehem/' he said, wRile talking to some wounded 
American soldiers in hospital. 

*' Gee ! " exclaimed one of the Doughboys. 
" I guess the shepherds watched their flocks that 

London has always had a great fascination 
for me. The people, taking them collectively, 
never hustle and rush, but they get through all 
the same. There is something about England 
ind the English — an inherent, dignified state- 
liness, which one cannot help admiring. 

I remember, on one of my first visits, we went 
to stop in the country, and there one sees the 
typical Englishwoman at her best. Of course, 
the Englishwoman has learnt the art of wearing 
French frocks, but I prefer her ruralized and 
tailor-rnade. And as for the country I Well, 
we have hills and plantations and ranches, 
picturesque enough for cinema, but I had never 
seen any really old houses until I came to 

My early explorations of London, however, 
were marked by one or two amusing errors, due 
to the confusion of names. I remember, for 
instance, going out to the Welsh Harp at Hendon, 
on one occasion, quite convinced that I must be 
on the borders of Wales. 

The cosmopolitan side of London life, to my 
mind, is the least attractive of all, perhaps be- 
cause one lives so much in cafis, restaurants, 
and on the boulevards abroad. Yet London 
has> a night city, and it is wonderful to think 
that in narrow Fleet Street alone there are men 
and machines at work for half the world. Fleet 
Street and all its little tributaries interest me 
very much. 

You see, had acting not succeeded, I should 
have written. As it is, I have two published 
romances which are widely read at home — 
" The Love Letters of an Actress " and " A Star 
for a Night." 

Perhaps I am just a wee bit proud of my 
poetical efforts and may be permitted to quote 
here my verses, which I have called " Irish 
Philosophy": — 

You may feel a bit of sadness 
Without really being sad, 
You may sense a touch of gladness 
Without really being glad. 
You may even feel some madness 
Without being really mad . . . 
But when it comes to badness 
Then look out 

For a little bit of sadness 
Will catch a fellow's eye 

And a little bit of gladness 
Will send his spirits high. 
And with a little madness 
You may very well get by I 
But when it comes to baaness 
There's a doubt 

For there's sadness that depresses 
And there's madness that distresses* 
Also gladness that expresses 
What the joy of Life's about. 
You can do without the sadness 
And the madness or the gladness ; 
But that little bit of badness 

People cannot live without. 

I have also produced my own play ; written, 
produced, and played in four moving-picture 
plays ; published a book of verse ; composed 
several songs and invented new dances. 

When in 1915 I brought the Fox-Trot to 
England, I was rather nervous about it catching 
on, although the cautious, sneaking movement, 
like rag-time, but forty-horse-power slower, 
fascinated me. To my great delight it fascinated 
London also. 

The Fox-Trot has now given place to the 
Jazz-band, and it is surprising how the word 
" Jazz " has caught on. In America it is quite 
common. An harmonious riot in anything is a 
Jazz — a band composed of tin can and coco-nut 
shells ; a blouse or pair of pyjamas the colours 
of which shriek at you ; a cocktail which makes 
you want to climb trees ; anything big and out- 
rageous is " Jazz." 

Really, however, I despair of finding anything 
startling- or remarkable, as I turn over the 
pages of my diary. I should love to tell you a 
good story, but what can I say ? No bold, bad 
bandits have held me up in the Wild West, my 
jewels have not been stolen, my motor-car has 
not been wrecked ; nobody has fallen in loVe 
with me sufficiently to give me a million dollars. 
I have not even been shipwrecked. 

It is astonishing, however, how many friends 
you find when a little success comes your way. 
I have been amazed at the number of girls of my 
own age who claim having been at college with 
me, whereas 1 never went to either college or 
school. Some people who never guessed our 
identity have assured mother and I that they 
knew Elsie Janis, who was married to one of 
their friend's dearest friends. It is not my fault 
that I have not committed bigamy a thousand 
times. So far as I know, however, I have not 
yet met my husband. I haven't any set ideas 
as to the right Mr. Right, should he ever appear. 
Only with a career and a mother like mine, 
marriage is one of those indefinite romantic 
possibilities and all the rosier for being so remote. 

by Google 

Original from 


Illustrated by A* Leete- 

T wag no way safe to go out 
shootin' with Mr. Anthony, the 
solicitor, at any time, him bein' 
so ner vous and short of the sight ; 
but he was a plucky wee man 
and full of sport, an 1 I risked 
my hie with him an' hid gun 
many a time just on that 
account, always hopin' it would be himself he'd 
ahoot in the end an' not mc. But when he took 
to courtin' I made up my mind th& only chance 
I had of dyiix" in my bed was to fall out with 
him as quick as I could, I got no end of chances. 
He was a kind of wanderin'- minded at the best, 
but afther the love took lum the divil a livin' 
thing was safe within a ring eighty yards round 
him, barrin' game-birds : an' the day he got the 
first letter from the sweetheart he even shot a 
cock-pheasant by mistake. 

The letters put him clean through himself 
altogether. Every now an' then he'd slap the 
gun down on the ground as if it was as harmless 
as a walking-stick, an' would sit down on the 
neardheat ditch an' take out a letter to read ; 
an' by the time he'd lift the gun again ye'd 
think he'd forgot whether a charge comes out 
through the muzzle or the breech. The way we 
fell out was this : One day afther reading a 
letter he picks up the gun an' sits considherm/ 
for a minit* 

" What the divil is he thlnkin' abtfut now ? " 
9?z I to myself. 

All at once he wheels round on me that sharp 
that he skins the bridge of ray nose with the 
muzzle before I could juke my head. 

" I wonder, Pat/' sez he, " was it the right 
barrel or the left I fired before I sat down ? " 
11 Why the divil don't ye open the breech an' 

Copyright, igtg, by 

look ? " sez I, a bit cross. For his* fingers waj 
playin 1 the piano on the two triggers, an' it 
was in my mind that it was myself would be tho 
firrt to find out. 

" It's all right, Pat/' sez he, "it was the loft 
barrel I fired, the choke-bore/* 

An" so it was ; for that minit the right barrel 
went ofE, an' if my setter pup's head had been 
where his tail was he was a dead dog, Divil 9 
word did I say, good or bad, but lifts my own 
gun an' away for home near as hard as the dog. 
For Mr, Anthony had a great tongue in his head, 
an' with him practisin* every Tuesday in the 
Petty Sessions Court had got very handy with 
it, an' I knowed if I once let him get started 
he'd deluder me into goin 1 on with him again. 
He did his best too. Four times he come out 
one errand to the house to talk me round 1 But 
I still hid when. I seen him comin', an' burned 
thirteen an' four pence worth of letters he wrote 
me, an* never wrote him a scrape back ; so at 
the last he gave me up as a bad job an' let me 

But though I kept out of his way I still heard 
what he was doin\ an' he was at the courtin' 
strong. A mortal fine girl she was too. Mr, 
Livingston the land-agent's daughter, Miss Betty. 
It all begun with Mr. Anthony's takin' the office 
below his, an' meetin* the daughter on the 
stairs, The first glimpse of her Mr. Anthony 
had he tumbled over head an' ears in love with 
her, an* with the ram-stam way he had of runnin' 
at everything he clean swept her off her feet. 

There was some thought she was too good for 
him. Not that she was so much of a beauty, 
but she was a pleasant-faced wee body. an J 
always the sam£ whenever ye met her. an' had 
a pair of itorJin^-ttifty : .W«iWitfc-tJifl kind of look 

Leslie A. Mmh 




in them that says, " Ye can depend upon me, 1 ' 
To my mind she was just the girl for a twittery, 
excitable wee body like Mr. Anthony. 

I'm not sayin' a word against the wee man, 
mind ye. A more open-hearted wee fellow nevei 
stepped, or a kindlier, an' was as true as steel ; 
but to live with him all his life was no nervous 
body's joJ>, as ye may have gathered. It was a 
long while since it had come into my head that 
I'd live a deal longer if he was once married 
an' settled down, an' had give up the shootin' 
for good. For I knowed that while he kept at 
it him an* me was sure to run across each other 
again, an* if we did an 9 he wanted me with him 
I knowed I could never hold out, not if the 
crowner had his jury ready picked for me. 

Sure enough I did run across him. 

It was all over a great hare that come to 
the Scroggy Knowe, an' beat everybody to kill. 
They tried her every way, with beagles, an' 
with greyhounds, an' with guns, an' she was 
too many for them all. When things would get 
a bit too hot for her she'd disappear for a while, 
an' the country would be full of liars that had 
shot her every man of them ; but thp grass of 
that hill must ha' been to her liking, for 'in a 
wee while back she'd come, an' they'd all start 
out to shoot her over again. 

'With the talk there went on about her I was 
keen to get a/shot at her myself, but I daren't 
venture. Courtin' an' all, Mr. Anthony had 
heard about the hare, an' courtin' an' all he 
be't to have a shot at her. By his own account 
he hadn't killed her less than five times ; but 
the only body he was ever able to produce was a 
' yearlin' calf of Tammas McGorrian's, an 1 people 
was of the opinion that as far as Mr. Anthony 
was concerned the hare was still in the land of 
the livin'. But the last of the times he killed 
her he was so certain about it that he shook 
people a- bit. Less than half an ounce of lead 
he hadn't put into her, he swore, an* saw her 
rollin' over twice. He give in that when he 
got up to the spot she was gone, but it was only 
\o go away somewhere an' die, he was positive 
about that, an' left the gun behind him the next 
night he come out,- an' went round searchin' the 
ditchefe with a pair of opera-glasses. 

Wee Robbie Dixon told me about seein* him 
wandherin 9 round ; an' when I heard he had 
no gun with him it come into my head that this 
was my time to make up friends with him again. 
So I took down the old muzzle-loader an' put a 
couple of charges in her just in case I'd come 
across the hare myself, an* of! I goes for the 

When I got there I saw no signs of either the 
hare or Mr. Anthony, an' afther a while I got 
tired trapesin' about, an' made up my mind to 
save my powder an' shot an' go 'off home. But 
that very minit a flock of green plover riz just 
across the hedge from me, an' I let off the two 
barrels at them. I seen a couple of them fall, 
an' run along the hedge lookin' for a gap, when 
I heard a great patterin' of feet behind me, an' 
when I stopped an' looked round, makin' sure 
the police had me this time, who was it but 
Mr. Anthony, ninnin' hot-foot, with the eye- 

glass bouncin' off his chest with every step, an' 
him trippin' over every brier-shoot an' whin 
along the ditch-side. 

". Did ye kill her, Eat ? " sez he, stutterin 9 
with the excitement, an 9 glammin' all over the 
breast of his waistcoat for the glasses. " Is she 
dead ? Where is she ? " 

?' Did I kill who? "sez I. 

" The hare," sez he. " Was it not her ye 
shot ? T've been trackin' her this half hour, an' 
she came up this way. Half-a-dozen times I 
seen her," sez he, " an' got within fifty yards of 
her, -creepin' on my hands and knees. Look at 
my breeches ! Of all the luck," sez he. " Fifty 
yards, did I say ? Not thirty yards either. 
I saw her as plain as I see you ; settin' up with 
her ears cocked. Damme, you'd think it was to 
spite me ! Twenty years I might walkabout this 
hill with a gun in my hand an' see nothin', an' 
the "first time I come out without one I have to 
pick my steps for fear I'd tramp on a hare. 
What /lid ye say ye shot, then ? " 

" A couple of green plover," sez I. 

" Aye. that's more of it," sez Mr. Anthony. 
" Green plover," sez he ; " they've been as thick 
as midges all evenin'. I had to brush them 
away from my face with my handkerchief. 
You'd tjiink they knew I had no gun. An' I 
felt I could shoot this evenin', too. Was there 
ever such luck ? Here, Pat, lend me that old 
inusket of yours, an' we'll have a look round for 
the hare before we go home. 99 

" Ye won't do much harm with that, anyway," 
thinks I to myself, handin' him the gun. 

" I wonder ye wouldn't buy yourself a breech- 
loader," sez he, lookin' at it a bit disgusted. 

" If ye'd a wife an 9 six childer to keep ye 

nldn't wonder a bit," sez I. " She does my 
well enough. I wish I had all I ever killed 
with her." 

" I doubt I couldn't do myself justice with a 
weapon like this," sez Mr. Anthony. " But 
away and get the plover, an' we'll take a walk 

tf Where did you see the hare last, Mr. 
Anthony ? " sez I, when I came back. 

" She was sittin' in the corner of Mr. Berming- 
ham's ten-acre field, just waitin' for me to shoot 
her," sez he, " when that young thoroughbred of 
his — the one his daughter is lookin* to win the 
Hunters' Cup with — came canterin' over the 
hill, an' the hare made off along the ditch, goin' 
easy. She'd settle down again very soon, if 
we could only tell where. Come on, Pat, we'll 
go round that way." 

" Sure it's fallin 9 dusk now, Mr. Anthony." 
sez I; " you'd never see her." 

"Of course I'd see her," sez he. "That's 
the best of bein^ a trifle short-sighted. I can 
see as well in the dusk as in daylight." 

" An* that's the Bible truth, anyway," se* I 
to myself. " But his claws is pretty well cut 
with the gun bein* empty." 

It was a blessin' she was. Every rush-bush 
an' tussock of grass he seen, down he'd go on 
his hunkers, fixin' the glass tighter in his eye 
with one hand an. 9 waflgin' the gun behind him 

^mstriVfsitisjt""^ u 



there had been a couple of charges in the gun, 
or even one, I wouldn't ha' been in my own 
shoes for a pension ! 

We wandered round the ditch of the ten-acre 
field this sort of a way, Mr. Anthony every 
now an* then keekih' through the bushes, an' 
pluckin' the glass out of his eye on a thorn - 
branch every time he drew back his head. The 
third or fourth time he done it crack goes the 
glass again the barrel of the gun an' into fifty 
pieces. * 

M Now we'll get goin* home," thinks I. An*, 
troth, I wasn't sorry, for my back was nearly 
broke with the stoopin*. But not a bit of it. 
Mr. Anthony's blood was up, an' he wouldn't 
listen to me. 

" Blethers," sez he, " I can see just as well 
without it. It's only a bally nuisance, anyway. 
I shot a cock-pheasant a month ago an' me had 
the wrong eye shut in my hurry. Easy here 
now. Pat ; this is a likely, corner." 

With that down he goes on his lace in among 
the briers, as if shooting-suits was got for nothin', 
an* pushes the muzzle of the gun through the 
hedge. I heard one click, an' then another, 
an' then afther a minit out he comes feet fore- 
most from among the briers, leavin' near as 
much clothes stickm* to them as he left on his 

" She's missed fire," sez he in my ear. I 
could hear his teeth grindin'. "Drat the old 
blunderbuss 1 she's missed fire ; an' I had the 
hare that well covered that I was near afraid 
to fire for fear of biowin' her to bits." 

" Sure the gun wasn't loaded, Mr. Anthony," 
sez I. " Don't you mind I fired the two barrels 
just before ye come runnin' up ? " 

I don't know whether a man can curse wickeder 
undher his breath or not, but it sounds wickeder. 

" Couldn't ye remind me, ye thick-skulled old 
dunderhead ? " sez he at the last, when he had 
his system brave an' well cleared. " Did ye 
think it was a bird of Paradise I was out afther, 
that I'd be satisfied with lookin' at it ? Wait ; 
maybe she's not away yet." 

Down he goes into the ditch again, an' comes 
out fair squirmin' with excitement. 

" She's there yet 1 " he splutthers. " Damme, 
she's there yet, an* nearer the ditch now, if 
anythin* I Gimme your powder an' shot — 
quick I " 

11 1 have no shot with me," sez I. " I just 
brought out the powder-horn in case the primin' 

But if he was vexed before, he went fair 
demented then ; all he had said at the first was 
nothin' to what he got out of him this time. 

All at once he stopped. 

"Hold on," sez he, "we're not beat yet. 
Gimme the powder." 

He snaps the powder-horn from my hand, 
and, with him bein' all of a tremble, I would 
say he didn't pour in Idis than a quarther of a 
pound into the left barrel. 

"What's the good of that* Mr. Anthony ? " 
sez I. " Ye'U never kill the hare with powder, 
barrin* she sits down on the muzzle." 

41 Stones." sez he, " ye old fool ! " glancin' all 

round him on the ground. " Small stones. 
Search about you, ttjere." 

" Not a bit of use, Mr. Anthony/' sez I. 
" Ye'd only blow them to dust, especially with 
the charge you have in. Sure there's enough 
powder in the gun to blast a quarry. You'd 
need to use metal of some kind." 

" Have you anythin' about you would do, 
Pat ? " sez he, feelin' all over his pockets. 
" Confound it all, why did I change into my 
shootin' clothes 1 Ye haven't a penknife or a 
key ? Feel now, quick." 

" Nothin' l>ut the key of the barn-door," sez 
I, fetchin' it out. " An' the only thing ye could 
fire that out of would be a drain-pipe." 

" I've the key of the safe myself," sez he, 
gropin' in his pockets ; " but I have to hand 
over the Maxwell deeds to-morrow, an' if the 
sale fell through I'd lose over two hundred 
pounds of fees, an' me wantin' to make money 
just now. Tck,, tck, tck," sez he, " was there 
ever such a spite ? If I could only shoot that 
hare I'd wipe the eye of the whole country. 
An' Betty wouldn't want me .to stop shoofin' 
then. Wait — wait now — I have somethin* I " 
He looks in the palm of his hand a minit, con- 
sidherin'. " No," sez he to himself, " I daren't 
do it." 

Just then we hears a thumpin' of hoofs on 
the far side of the hill. 

" It's that cursed horse," sez Mr. Anthony, 
dhroppin' something into the gun an' leppin' 
into the ditch. " She'll be away." 

" Take care, Mr. Anthony," I calls to him. 
*' Watch where ye shoot." 

But it was too late. Bang goes the gun like 
young thunder, with the charge was in her. 
Mr. Anthony lights on his back among the 
briers with his heels in the air, an' the same 
min/t there comes a terrible screech of a horse 
from across the ditch. 

" Oh, heavenly powers," sez I to myself, "he's 
shot Mr. Bermingham's thoroughbred ! " 

The wee man was crawlin' out from amonft*he 
briers with a face the colour of chalk, barrin' one 
bad tear of a brier across his nose. 

" I doubt, Pat," sez he, all shakin', " I've 
done some harm to the horse." 

" Doubt be hanged ! " sez I. " Did ye not 
hear the scream of him ? Listen a minit." 

We stood there gazin' at each other. But 
not a sound from across the hedge. I jumped 
into the ditch an' looked through. The horse 
was lyin' just on the crown of the hill, an', as 
well as I could see in the dusk, there wasn't a 
move on him, barrin' a bit of a twitch in his 
hind legs. 

"He's killed dead," sez I; "an* what's to be 
done now ? " 

But for the first time in his life Mr.' Anthony 
had nothin' to say. He just stood there gapin' 
at me, with his knees shakin', an' every now 
an' then thryin' to put the string of his 
eyeglass in his eye as if the glass was still on 
the end of it. 

" Come on, Mr. Anthonv " sez I, stoopin' for 
my gun. " There's no use cryin' over spilt 
milk. Well put a mile or two between us an' 





this, anyway. Keep close along the ditches for 
fear we'd be seen, Run now, like blazes J IJ 

Away we went, hell for leather, Mr, Anthony 
leadin' ; an/ for the size of his legs it was 
wonderful how he covered the ground. When 
we'd run about a mile or so I called on him tu 
stop, for he had me clean winded* 

" We'll separate now, Mr. Anthony/* sez I. 
** Nobody seen me leavin' the house with the 
gun. I'll slip her hack quietly now it's near 
dark, An* anybody that met you knows you 
came out* ol Ballygulllon with a walkin'-stick ; 

so you're all 
right. Good* 
bye now. 
You've got off 

half of it, too, an' my best girl, an" my whole 
chances in life. This is the ertd of my shootin\ 
I should have listened to Betty. I was tht 
ma kin's of a good shot — she gave in to that— 
but I'm unfortunate at it, bad scran to it, I'm 
unfortunate t The divil fly away with that 
dirty, steeplechasin' brute I Could he not stand 
at peace like a Christian' an' eat grass, instead 
of makin' a travellin' circus of himself ? " 

" What in the name of patience is wrong 
now, Mr* Anthony ? " sez I- " How will we b« 
found out ? " 

** listen, Fat." sez he* * You know I'm 
courtin" Miss Betty Livingston. Everybody 
knows it. The whole gOssiP m ' town of Bally- 
gullion knows it p all but her father, an' he might 
have knowed it if he'd had 
a light on the stairs up to 
his office. We kept it from 
him because I wanted him to 
give me the estate busrness on 




better than you deserve, an J be 
thankful. Take to drink if ye like, 
from this on, but for Heaven's sake 
Sign the pledge against shootin' I " 

" What's wrong with my shootin' ? " sez Mr. 
Anthony, He was comin' to himself now the 
worst fright was off him* "I'll lay my head to 
a ha'penny the hare's lyin' dead in the field, 
I seldom miss a snapshot like that. The seal 
must have gone out through her. I was a bit 
heavy-handed with the powder." 

** The what went through her ? " sez I, 

" The seal/' sez he. His jaw dropped an* he 
stood loo kin 1 at me open-mouthed, 

"Pat," sez he, at the last "we're ruined* 
No, you're not ruined. I can pay for the horse. 
But I've lost half my practice, an' the easiest 

my merits, now that 
old Johnston is likely 
to retire, an' not have 
people sayin', an' may- 
be himself thinJrin', I 
was courtW his daugh- 
ter for it. So Betty 
an'J have been writin' 
an odd note to each 
other ; an' she wasn't 
too sure of the post- 
office — they take a 
great interest in a love 
affair in BaUygullion 
post- office — an' she 
gave me an old seal 
of her great-grand- 
father's to seal up any 
letters I might send 
her* It was that I 
put down, the guo/ 1 
sez he, " thinkin' it 
would surely stop in the hare's 
body. But it didn't; an* now it s 
stickin' in the carcass of that gal- 
lopin' wild Arab of the desert, an 1 
I may leave the country 1 " 

"Wait, now/' sea I; "what 
was cut on the seal ? " 

" Betty had my monogram cut on it before 
she gave it me," sez he. " But I wouldn't care 
a fig for that, I got my head clerk to draw it 
for me, an' he's one of them fancy penmen, 30 
the divil himself couldn't read it. But Bettys 
father'll know the seal.^ 

" Could ye not get Miss Betty to square him ? " 
sec I, 

" Is it tell her I fired off her seal at a hare ? " 
sec Mr + Anthony. " Have you no gumption 
about girls at your :inis of life ? An* tor another 
thing, slie'd nevpifjf^/^lfi^f.Jaiiother shot if 



she heard of this disaster, an' l might want to 
start again sometime. No/' sez he, '' we'll 
take our chance. Maybe they won't dig the 
seal out of him. There's some good luck due 
to me after this evenin's work." 

" I wouldn't put too much dependence on 
that, Mr. Anthony," sez I. " Ye've been lucky 
with the girl, an' that's as much luck as a man 
can expect" in one year. If Mr. Bermingham 
doesn't ferret out who 'killed the horse it's a 
queer thing. I tell you he'll raise holy wars, 
an' he'll be all the worse on account of the 
beast bein 9 Miss Mary's. She was desperate 
set on the horse, an' she'll not let this lie. You'd 
better find out the price of a ticket for America," 
sez I—'* for two." 

But the extraordinary thing was there was 
no*row riz at all after the first outcry when 
the horse was found. I had a nice wee story 
made up of where I was that evenin*. against the 
day the peelers would be out cross-questionin" 
me ; but the divil a peeler came near the house 
at all, nor even round the country, as far as I 
could hear, an' ye may guess I kept my ears 
open. I heard Miss Mary Bermingham cried 
very hearty when the horse was bein' buried 
in the demesne, an' had two of the hoofs cut 
off to have them mounted ; ah' the father came 
out one evenin' to see the placi where he was 
killed, lookin' very wicked, they said ; but after 
that there was no word of them makin' a move, 
an' I begun to think Mr. Anthony's luck had 
turned. As for himself, he was as elastic as an 
india-rubber ball any time ; an' when he wasn't 
found out straight away he put the whole 
business out of his mind. The only bad fright 
he got was when he seen all he had left of his 
shootin'-suit when he got home, an' minded 
that the balance of it was stickin' to the briers 
where he done the deed. But for all he was a 
lawyer, I'd been quicker than him there ; for 
I got up early the next mornin' an' went an' 
put a match to the ditch. 

The seal was the only thing that bothered 
me ; an' it kept on botherin' me. It still ran 
ip my mind that they'd never bury the horse 
without the wound bein' well examined ; and 
if they did I knowed there was trouble brewin', 
for all the quiet way things was goin' on. So I 
kept a bit wary, with some kind of a handy lie 
always in my cheek ; an' it was just as well. 

About a week after the horse was killed I 
w^s standin' in BallygulHon market, when who 
should come up but Miss Mary Bermingham. 
Not that there was much to wonder at in that, 
for I knowed her well with her comin' out our 
way huntin' many a time ; an' she seldom 
passed me without biddin' me the time of day 
or maybe a bit of a crack. But I took' a tight 
grip of my tongue all the same an' lay very 
low. She stood a minit or two askin' me about 
the wile an' the family an' the prospects of a • 
good winter's huntin', makin' all the time as 
if she was iust goin* to pass on. All at once 
she pulls her hand out of her pocket. 

" Did ye ever see that before, P&t ? " sez she, 
holdin' it under my nose. There was a big gold 
seal in the palm of it. 

" I never did, Miss Mary," sez 1, well pleased 
to be startin' with the truth, anyway. " There's 
not many country farmers carries them things 
at their watch-chain." 

She looked very hard at me, but I didn't 
move a mtiscle. 

" I found it in the demesne the other day," 
sez she. " You didn't hear of anyone losin* such 
a thing ? " 

" I did not then, miss." sez I. " But if I 
do, I'll tell him who has it." 

" No," sez she, " tell me first. I'd like to 
have the pleasure of givin' it back. Don't 
forget, now, Pat. If you hear of anyone that 
has lost a seal you're to be sure an' tell me 
before you tell the owner." 

" I'll not forget, Miss Mary," sez I, as she 
went off with a nod an' a smile. " Boys," sez 
I to myself, as I stood lookin' after htr, "isn't 
the weemin deep, too ? I wonder has she been 
to Mr. Anthony yet ? " 

But I was brave an' easy in my mind about- 
him even if she had, for, whether it was tne 
lawyerin' or a natural gift, I knowed Mr. Anthony 
could He like a burial-card. All the same, I 
thought I'd have a word with him just to put 
him on his guard ; so when I had the pigs sold 
away I goes round to his office. When I went 
in they told me he was in the estate office 
upstairs, an' sent me into the private room to 

A mighty queer kind of a private room it was 
for a solicitor to have. I'd seen it many a 
time before an' knew what it was like, but after 
what had happened I thought it would ha' been 
different this time ; but it wasn't. 

There was guns all over the place : a double- 
barrelled breech-loader in one corner an' another 
behind the door, an' a match-rifle over the 
mantelpiece, with a huntin'-crop crossed over 
it. Away in a corner was a glass case full of 
stuffed birds tha^Mr. Anthony had persuaded 
himself by this time he had shot ; an' all over 
the mantelpiece, an' even on. his desk, was 
cartridges of every sort an' description, some 
empty an' some full. Lookin' at it all, you'd 
ha' said he was a great sportsman altogether ; 
an,' troth, accordin' to his gifts, so he was. 

I hadn't right finished takin' stock till in he 
came, lookin' that worried that I made sure 
somethin' bad had cropped up about the horse 
in the meantime ; for the last time I seen him 
he hadn't a care in the world, no more than if 
horses was vermin. 

" What's up Mr. Anthony ? " sez I. " What 
has gone wrong with ye ' " 

He slapped a handful of deeds down on his 
desk an' upset an- inkstand before he answered 

" That's right," sez he, " pour yourself all 
over the place I Hit me when I'm down I 
Damme," sez he, pullin' out his handkerchief 
an' moppin' up the ink, " damme, but the very 
writin' utensils are down on me ! What's up, 
Pttt ? I'll tell ye what's up. The landlord of 
the estate is upstairs, an' the agent with him, 
an* they're settlin' whether I'm to get the law- 
work of half a county ; an' hayer as good as made 




up their minds to give it to me. I'm a made 
man," sez he, " an' my income is goin' to be 
trebled — an' it's all no use to me, an' less than 
no use." 

" It's a very poor imitation of bad news," 
sez I. " What's wrong about it ? " * 

" Listen an' I'll tell you," sez he. " You an f 
me is old friends ; an' I must tell somebody — 
Betty has faljen out with me." 

" What about, Mr. Anthony dear ? " sez I. 

" I don't know what about," sez he, risin' 
an' trampin*. round the room. "That's the 
exasperatin' part of it. It all begun about four 
or five days after-thai horse met with the accident. 
Up till then all was goin' on as usual. J had 
two or three notes from her, an' met her every 
day, on the stairs^ All at once she stopped 
comin', and she stopped writin'. I hadn't been 
wiritin' to her for reasons of my own, but I 
wrote then, an' all the answer I got was my 
ring back, an' my letters, an' the divil a scrape 
of, the pen then or since, though I've written to 
her twenty times. I called at the house, an' 
she wasn't at home, though I seen her through 
the dinin'-room window both times I .went. 
An' when I meet her in the street she just turns 
an' runs. I know somethin' about dogs an' 
horses an' guns— ye'll give in to that yourself, 
Pat. Well, I thought I knew somethin' about 
weemin, too ; but I was wrong." 

" Ye didn't give her any cause to fall out 
with ye that ye can think of ? " sez I. 

" None in the wide world, Pat," sez he. " I've 
been beatin' my brains about it till I'm that 
muddled I can 1 hardly draft a lease, an' blast 
me if I can think of anything that even a woman 
could take offence at ; an' I make part of my 
livin' out of unreasonable weemin. I give in 
that I've been a bit extra civil to Miss Mary 
Bermingham latterly, seein' that I was lookin' 
out for the estate work ; but Betty, knew what 
I was after. She couldn't be thirty about that." 

" I suppose not," sez I ; " though, mind ye, 
ye were on ticklish ground*. There's nothin' 
else ye can think of ? She wouldn't be vexed 
about ye losin' the present she give ye ? '* 

" What present ? " sez he. 

" The seal," sez I. 

The* wee man broke into the first glimmer of a 
smile I'd seen oil his face since I came in. 

" I bamboozled her there, Pat/' sez he. " I 
bamboozled her there. I sent to Belfast the 
next day an' had a new seal cut with just the 
same curlikews on it as "the old one, as far as 
Dixoft here could remember them, an' I didn't 
write to her till I got it. It was pretty cute of 
me, Pat, eh ? " 

" I know where ye are now, Mr. Anthony," 
sez I. " Ye've been too cute ; that's all has 
?)een the matter with ye." An' I told him what 
had passed between Miss Bermingham an' me 
that very afternoon. " Ye can put two an* 
two together, Mr. Anthony. Miss Betty has 
seen Miss Bermingham with the seal, an' thinks 
ye lost her present, an' was likely a bit vexed, 
but would ha* thought nothin' of it in a day or 
two ; an' you must come along with your false 
teal, throwin' dust? in her eyes instead of ownin' 

up like a irian. "Ye know what she is herself, as 
straight as a rule, an' ye can guess what she 
thinks of your cleverness. I'll lay my head to 
a ha'penny that's what it's all about." 

I expected Mr. Anthony to be dancin* round 
the room, cursin' himself, for that was the way 
with him. He was always either up or down. 
But there were queer turns in him, too. All 
he does is sit' down at the table very cool and 
collected and lay a sheet of paper before him on 
the desk. 

" Wait a second or two, Pat," sez he, " till I 
think." He sat there cogitatin' for a long time. 
" It seems to me," sez he, at the last, "that 
this is one of those very rare an' distressin' 
cases -where it's goin' to be necessary to tell the 
truth. It's unprofessional, but it'll have to be 
done. I'll hgLve to tell Betty about the horse, 
that's clear. Not that I mind about that. It 
was the brute's own fault, as I'll explain to her. 
You can bear me out on that question, Pat ? " 

" Anythin' you say, Mr. Anthony," sez *I, 
" I'll swear toi" 

' " But the awkward thing about tellin' Betty 
is that she'll never rest till I confess it all to 
Mr. Bermingham and his daughter. That's how 
Betty is built. She can't help it. It's a most 
exasperatin' thing about her, but that's why I 
think so much of her, all the same. Now, as 
soon as Mr. Bermingham knows I shot his horse 
— or his daughter's horse — I lose my chance of 
the estate business. An' if I lose the estate 
business Betty's father'll never look at me for 
a son-in-law. Livin' above me here, he knows 
fairly well what my practice is worth without 
it ; an' he's a man of big notions. Ye see what 
must be done, Pat ? " 

" The divil a bit of me," sez I. " It seems to 
•me ye're in a fix." 

" Betty must marry me before I tell ; that'g 
all," sez Mr. Anthony. " She'll do it, too, the 
darlin*; I know she will. She's fond of me. Pat, 
damme she's fond of me ; an' she doesn't care 
a fig for money any more than I do myself. 
An* she'll be that pleased with me ownin' up 
about the seal and the horse that she'll do any- 
thin' I want. Gimme my pen," sez he, gettin* 
excited all at once. " I'll write to her this very 
minit. Half-a-dozen lines'll do. She'll come 
down to hear th^ rest. There's no time to be 
lost," sez he, scribblin' away for dearJife. " It 
knight come out about the horse any minit. If 
Miss Mary didn't know how straightforward I 
am she'd have suspected me long ago. 1 cafl 
work the licence all right — an' I've an old 
college chum'll marry us. Fetch the office-boy, 
Pat. Where's my seal ? Look on the desk," 
sez he,, strikin' a match. 

" I wouldn't use that seal again if I was 
you, Mr. Anthony," sez I. 

" I'm a fool," sez Mr. Anthony. " I'm a 
thick-witted fool. Of course I mustn't use it. 
Blast it, I've burnt my fingers ! Whatll I use ? 
Here, the end of this will do," sez he, pickin' 
up a cartridge-case an' clappin' it on the blazm* 

" Stop, Mr. Anthony I " I shout* " StopT 

But the powder was quicker than me. There 




was a flash and a bang would ha' split your ears. 
Away goes I backwards over the chair on the 
broad of my back. The case of stuffed birds 
just missed my head by about six inches as it 
fell ; but it it missed me, the ceiling didn't, for 
my head was singin' for days after from the 
dunt I got on the skull with a bit of the plasthcr 

By the time I was right come to myself the 
room was cleared of the whole town of Bally- 
inillion but Mr. Bermingham an' Mr, Livingston 
an* Mr. Anthony's head clerk. When the clerk 
went out I rii to my feet an' looked "over at Mr. 
Anthony, The two gentlemen had got his head 
ou a cushion where he was lyin' on the floor P 
an' was pourin" into him what water was left 
in the jug afther puttin' him out. The eye- 
brows was burned off him, an" part of the hair ; 
an' as for his face, you'd ha* thought they had 
swept the chimbley with it, Divii 
he could do but gasp 
an' curse, though they 
were doin* their best 
between sips of water 
to get out of him what 
had happened. Then 
they turned to me. but 
for all I was a bit dazed 
I had my wits well 
enough about me to 
let on 1 hadn't ; so 
they made nothin' of 

In the middle of the 
cross-examination who 
should come runnin' 
into the room but Miss 
Betty* an' at her heels 
Miss Bermingham. 
Miss Betty was as 
white as a ghost. She 
never says a word, but 
drops on her knee* 
beside Mr. Anthony 
an' takes his head in 
her lap* 

* 'We're ruined now, ' fc 
thinks L "He'll blurt 
out the whole thing 
before them all, with 
the state he's in/' 
An* that very miuit 
here don't I see Miss 
Bermingham stoop 
down and pick up 
the false seal off the 
floor. She took one 
look at it, an* one at 

Mr, Anthony an' Miss Betty. The two gentle- 
men was loo kin 1 at them purty hard already. 

Mr. Anthony was the first to speak, 

11 Stand back, everybody/' he ga$ps out, 
"There's somethin' I want to say to Betty." 

So we all drew back, not knowin' whether it 
was his last dyin' speech an' confession or not ; 
an' Mr. Anthony draws down Miss Betty's head 
an' whispers to her a long time. * 

" It's not so bad/' sez I to myself, " Even 

if Miss Mary has found us out* Mr, Anthony has 
his blow in first with the sweetheart/* 

I could see Miss Betty's face changin' as he 
spoke, an' when he stopped she was a* red as 

44 Then you didn't give it to her, 1 * sez she, 
takin" a look across the room at Miss Mary ; an' 
with, that she bends down her head an' kisses 




Mr, .Anthony where she 
thought his mouth was 
likeliest to be, an" she 
made no bad shot 
at it. 

Ye should have, seen 
Mr- Livingston's face. 
He half opened his lips 
to speak ; but Miss 
Mary was beforehand 
with him. 
" Not a word, now, Mr. Livingston/' sez she, 
" This is a case of true love, as you might have 
seen long ago if you hadn't been so — so busy 
lookin' after *my father's affairs* " she puts in F 
stnilir/. " You're goin J to give your consent ; 
an 1 , father, you're goin* to make Mr, Anthony 
solicitor for the estate. JJow, there's no more 
to be said." 

Mr. Bermir^ham IcoWd at Mr. Livingston, an* 
then the two of th_em shook their headsj half 

[IvIMtyof .Michigan ■ 



i * 

'congratulate me, pat/ sez he. ' i'm goin' to be married this day six weeks. 

iaughin'j an' looked at Miss Mary an" back at 
each other again. 

M Come on, now p " sez Miss Mary, " that's 
settled. . I see Mr. Anthony isn't goin' to die 
this time : an' were not wanted here." 

The two men went out, an' Miss Mary was 
just goin' aft her them when Mr. Anthony lifts 
his head. 

J^Wait a mirut. Miss Birmingham/' sez he, 
"fliere's somothia* on my mind," 

" I haven't lime now/' sez Miss Mary. " Conn; 
on, Pat/' An' off she goes afther her father, 

I sat in the outside office tellin* lies to the 
clerks I suppose fifteen or twenty mini is ; an' 
there was no stir at all inside. But at last 
Miss Betty looks out of the door with a very 
black face an 1 beckons me in. 

Mr. Anthony was sittin' up in a chair smilin* 
Jike a Christy Minstrel. When he saw me he riz 
up an' holds out his hand, 

" Congratulate me, Pat," sez he, "I'm goin' 
to be married this day six weeks. If I'd only 
this horse business off my mind I'd be the 
happiest man in the world." 

H More power to the two of ye/ p sez I N afther 
a whoop just to relieve my feehn's. "I'm a 
poor man, but it's a queer thing if I won't be 
first in with my present. 1 ' 

But I wasn't. Just that mi nit there comes a 
knock on the door, an' in walks the office-boy 
with a brown -paper parcel. 

M You're to ojten it at once, sir/ J the messenger 

w AH right/' seE Mr- Anthony, " Ye needn't 
wait, Open it, Betty/* sez he. 
* She an' I took off the wrapping an* here out 
on the desk tumbles a horse's hoof mounted 
in silver, an' a wee note stuck on it with a 

Mr, Anthony looked at mc, an 1 me at him, 
an' if I was the foohshest-lookin' of the two it 
was because Mr. Anthony's face was black. 

11 Read the note, Betty," sez he, at last. 

Miss Betty opened it an' read : — 

" Dear Mr. Anthony ant? Betty, — 

*■ I think this pin-cushion will be your first 
present. It's a token of friendship and good- 
will — and a dose tongue. Good luck 1 

M Mary Bermingiiam/' 

" Isn't she a brick, Anthony ? " cries Miss 
Betty, "Is it any wonder I was jealous of 
her ? M 

" She's more than a brick/' sez Mr. Anthony. 
" She's an angel. Betty, you must go this 
minit an* thank her — for me in particular. Tell 
her I owned up about the horse. I'd like her 
to know that — though, mind ye, it was all his 
own fault. An' — an', Betty," sez he, " ask her 
when he was found did she see any sign of a 
dead hare/* 

by Google 

Original from 



The sudden change which made this battle 
the most dramatic in the war. 



A Whirlwind Attack— The Rally— Desperate Defence of the Twenty^ninth 
Division— Guards to the Rescue— The Northern Attack— A Slaughter of 

Germans — The Results. 

% m 

T was clear before the end of 
November, 191 7, to the British 
Commanders that the enemy had 
grown so strong that the initia- 
tive had passed to him, and that 
instead of following up attacks 
it was a question now of defend- 
ing positions against a determined 
endeavour to shove back the intruders and splice 
the broken line. The multifarious signs of 
activity behind the German lines, the massing 
of troops, the planting of batteries, and the 
registration of ranges all warned the experienced 
observers that a great counter-offensive was 
about to begin. There was no question of a 
surprise at any point of the line, but Bourlon 
was naturally the place where the enemy might 
be expected to be at his full strength, since 
it was vital that he should regain that position. 
At the same time it was clearly seen that the 
storm would break also at the south end of the 
line, and General Snow had given every instruc- 
tion to the G.O.C. Fifty-fifth Division, which 
held the position next to the scene of action. 
The experienced leader took every step which 
could be though* of, but he was sadly handicapped 
by the state of his division, which had been so 
severely hammered at Ypres, and had in the last 
few days had one brigade knocked to pieces at 
Knoll. With only two brigades, full of young 
troops who had taken the place of the casualties 
incurred in the north, he had to cover at least 
ten thousand yards of ground. We will begin 
by endeavouring to follow what occurred in this 
southern sector, and then turn to the equally 

• Copyright, X9i9.!by 

important, though less dramatic, doings in the 

The attack in the south was delivered upon a 
front of tfcn miles from Vendhuille in the south 
to Masnidres in the north. 


Shortly after seven in the morning the tempest 
suddenly broke loose. The surprise was so well 
carried out that, though the British General was 
expecting an attack, and though he had his wire 
patrols pushed up to the German trenches only 
a hundred yards off, still their reports at dawn 
gave no warning of any sound to herald the 
coming rush. It came lik^ a clap of thunder. 
An experienced officer in the front British 
trench said : " My first impression was that of 
an earthquake. Then it seemed to me that an 
endless procession of aeroplanes were grazing 
my head with their wheels. On recovering from 
the first shock of my surprise the Germans were 
far behind me." There was no question of pro- 
tective barrage, for the quickest answer to the 
most urgent S.O.S. would havei been too late to 

This account refers particularly to the 166th 
Brigade, upon the left of the Fifty-fifth 
Division, which got the full blast of the storm. It 
and the guns behind it were overrun in an instant 
by the weight and speed of the advance. The 
general in command did all that could be done 
in such an emergency, but it was impossible to 
form a fixed line. The alternative was to swing 
back, hinging upon tha right of the division, 



flank formed upon the left of the stormers. 
There was a ravine, called Ravine 22 upon the 
maps, which ran down between the Fifty-fifth 
and Twelfth Divisions. With the terrific force 

^ of a flood the Germans poured down this natural 
runwayr destroying the British formations upon 
each side of it. The Fifty-fifth Division was 
shattered to pieces at this point by so terrific 
an impact upon their feeble line, but the small, 
groilps into which they were broken put up as 
good a fight as they could, while the line formed 
anew between the village of Villers-Guislain and 
the farm Vaucelette, which was a strong pivot 
of resistance. In this part of the field units of 
the 165th Brigade of Liverpool battalions, 
together with the 5th Royal Lancasters and the 
10th Liverpool Scottish, of the 166th Brigade, 
stood stoutly to their work, and though the 
enemy, after penetrating the lines, were able to 
get the village of Villers-Guislain, which they had 
turned and surrounded, they were never able 
to extend their advance to the south on, account 
of this new line of defence through Vaucelette, 
though ft was composed entirely of infantry 
with no artillery support. However, even with 
this limitation, the situation was bad enough, since 
the 1 66th Brigade was almost cut to pieces; 
upon the extreme left one battalion, the 5th 
South, Lancashires, was nearly destroyed. Of 
the division generally, it was said by a higher 
general that " they fought like tigers," as might 
be expected of men who had left a great name 
on the battle of Ypres, and who were destined 
for even greater fame when four months later 
they held Givenchy at the critical moment of 
the terrible battle of Armentieres. Here, as 
always, it is constancy in moments of adversity 
and dour refusal to accept defeat which dis- 
tinguishes both the British soldier and his 

We shall now see what happened to the 
Twelfth Division upon the left of the Fifty-fifth. 
When the German stormers poured down 
Ravine 22 their left-handed blow knocked out 
the 1 66th Brigade, while their right hand 

« crushed in the side of this division. From the 
ravine in the south to Quarry Farm in the 
north the German infantry surged round 'the 
position like a mountain spate round some 
rockhearted islet, where the edges might crumble 
and be washed out by the torrent, but^he solid 
core would always beat back the waters. The 
line of the division was a curved one, with the 
35th Brigade upon the right, the 36th in the 
centre, and the 37th upon the left. It was the 
right-hand brigade upon which the storm burst 
with its full, shattering force. 

The 7th Suffolks, next to the fatal ravine, 
shared the fate of the 5th South Lancashires upon 
the southern edge of it. By a coincidence the 
colonel had been invalided for appendicitis the 
day before, but Major Henty, who was in 
command, was killed. The 5th Berks and 9th 
Essex, broken up into small parties and en- 
veloped in a smoke cloud through which they 
could only catch dim glimpses of rushing 
Germans, were pushed back to the north and 
west, still keeping some sort of cohesion, until 

they reached the - neighbourhood of Bleak 
House, where they rallied once more and 
gathered for a counter-attack. Everywhere 
over this area small parties were holding on, 
each unconscious of all that was passing outside 
its own little smoke-girt circle. Close to Villers- 
Guislain upon the south side of the ravine 
Sapper Company 70* together with the 5th North- 
ampton Pioneers, held pn bravely lor many 
hours, shooting into the flank of the German 
advance, who poured over the British gun 
positions, which were well forward at this point 
in order to support the troops in Masnieres and 
Marcoing. Some of the incidents round the 
guns were epic in character, for the British 
gunner does not lightly take leave oi his piece. 
Many were fought to the, last instant, their 
crews hacking at them with pickaxes and 
trenching tools to disable tbem even while the 
Germans swarmed in. Lieutenant Wallace, of 
the 363rd Battery, with five men, served three 
guns point-blank, their trails crossing as they 
covered three separate fields of fire. Each of 
this band of heroes received a decoration, their 
pleader getting the V.C. The 92nd R.F.A., near 
La Vacquerie, also repulsed four separate 
attacks, firing with open sights at a range of 
two hundred yards before they were forced to 
dismantle their guns and retire. 

The 7th Norfolks, on the left edge of the 35U1 
Brigade! were farthest from the storm centre 
and stoutly beat off all attacks. Only one 
lieutenant was left upon his feet at the N end of 
the day. Separated from their comrades the 
Norfolks were rather part of the^th Brigado 
upon their left, who were also fiercely attacked, 
but were more happily situated as regarded 
their ' flank. The 9th Royal Fusiliers were 
pustied back to the Cambrai Road on the north, 
but with some of the Norfolks built up a solid 
line of resistance there. Next to them upon 
the left the two companies of the 8th Royal 
Fusiliers, which were in the line, lost very heavily, 
in spite of a splendid attempt to rescue them 
made by the other two companies led by their 
heroic colonel, Elliott Cooper. In this brave 
effort the leader, gained his Victoria Cross, but 
also unhappily a wound from which he eventually 
died. This counter-attack drove the Germans 
back for the first time in this terrible morning, 
. but their lines were reinforced and they came 
on once more.* 

The 37th Brigade upon the left had their 
own set of troubles to contend with. The 
Germans had beaten hard upon the neighbouring 
Twentieth Division, breaking into their tine 
upon the right of the flank 59th Brigade. In 
this way they got into Lateau Wood and on to 
the Bona vis Ridge, which placed them upon the 
left rear of the 37th "Brigade. The unit was in 
imminent danger of being cut off, but held 
strongly «to its line, the pressure falling particu- 
larly heavily upon the 7th East Surreys and 
upon the 6th Buffs. Pam-Pam Farm was the 
centre of some very desperate fighting on the 
part of these two units. The brigade was 
sorely tried and forced backwards, but still 
held its ovm, facias opon two and even three 






Ma#iil«rt* Qtrsaa 44v*ao§, 

« ?ost*i** 



4* n 


i# *5 


different fronts, as the enemy drifted in from 
the north and east. 


In the meantime a train of independent v 
circumstances had built up a reserve line which 
was destined to be of great importance in 
limiting the German advance until reinforce- 
ments could arrive. • Their stormers had witjim 
an hour or two reached not only Villers-Guislain 
and Gonnelieu, but had even entered Gouzeau- 
court, three miles deep in the British line. 
This village, or rather a quarry upon its eastern 
edge, was the headquarters of the Twenty-ninth 
Division, and the Germans were within an ace 
of capturing its> famous commander, General , 
De Lisle. The amazed commandant of the local 
hospital found a German sentry at his door 
instead of a British one, and with the usual 
British good-humour sent him out a cup of tea. 
No doubt he did the same to the Irish Guards- 
man who in turn relieved the German in the 
afternoon. Captain Crow, of the Staff, was killed. 
The G.O.C. Division, General De Lisle, with 
quick decision organized a temporary defence for 
the south end of the village, and then hurried 
up to join his hard-pressed men at Marcoing. 
The G.O.C. Twelfth Division, General Scott, 
a veteran of many battles, had energetically 
hurried up the two battalions which he held in 
reserve. They were the 6th West Surreys and 
the nth Middlesex. Some hundreds of odds- 
and*ends near headquarters were also formed 
into a unit and pushed to the front. These 
went forward towards the firing with tbe 
vaguest notion of the situation, meeting broken 
groups of men and catching occasional glimpses 
of advancing Germans. The G.O.C. of the 
35th Brigade, General Vincent, had been nearly 
caught in Gonnelieu, and found the enemy between 
hinxand his men. As he came back withjiis Staff, 
pausing occasionally to fire at the advancing 
Germans, he • passed Gauche Wood, and there 
met the advancing battalions, which he helped 
to marshal along a low ridge, the Revelon 
Ridge. The Northumberland Hussars lined up 
on the right of these troops, and two brigades 
of cavalry coming up from the south formed on 
the left of them at a later hour. The whole 
held firm against all ,enemy attacks and made a 
bulwark until the time when the Guards advanced 
in the afternoon. When that event occurred 

this Revelon line formed roughly a prolongation 
of the new line established by the Guards and 
Cavalry, so that a long dam was formed. Com- 
manding officers in this critical part of the field 
gave a sigh of relief in the early afternoon as 
they realized that the worst was over. 

Douglas Smith's Twentieth light Division was 
on the left of the Twelfth, and its experience was 
equalty trying. Itwas upon the riflemen of the 
59th Brigade that the main shock fell, and it came 
with such sudden violence that the Germans 
were through the right unit and in the rear of 
the rest before the situation was fully realized. 
The 61st Brigade upon the left had also a m6st 
desperate time, thtir flank being penetrated and 
turned so that for a time they were cut off from 
their comrades of the Twenty-ninth Division at 
Masnifcres. By this determined German attack 
the south bank of the Canal was partially cleared 
for their advance, which put them in the position 
that they could push along that bank and 
get hold of Les Rues Vertes and the southern 
ends of the bridges so as to cut off those British 
troops who were across the Canal. In this 
dangerous movement they nearly had success, 
and it was only the desperate fighting of some 
Of the 86th Brigade which saved the situation. 
The prospects were even worse upon the right 
of the division, for the Germans broke through 
Lateau Wood, and so got completely behind the 
10th K.R.R., who were the flank battalion. 
From the desperate struggle which ensued only 
few ever emerged, for the battalion was 
attacked on three sides and was over- 
whelmed after a long and splendid defence, which 
twice repulsed heavy frontal attacks before the 
flank advance rolled up the line. The battalion 

Ct separated from its own headquarters in 
teau Wood, and the O.C.,Colonel Sheepshanks, 
with tbe twenty odd men who composed the Staff, 
fought a little battle of its own against the 
stormers coming down towards the Bonavis- 
Masni&res Road. The survivors of the brigade 
rallied upon the reserve battalion, the nth R.B. 
on the Hindenburg Line. The nth K.R.R., 
on the left of the brigade front, had endured a 
similar experience, but their losses were not so 
terribly severe. The aeroplane attack worried 
the troops almost as much as the infantry, so 
that it is no exaggeration to say that there 
were times when they were assailed from four 
sides, the front, each flank, and above at the 






same instant. These aeroplanes gave the im- 
pression of being armour-clad and invulnerable 
to rifle-fire. 


Upon the left of the Twentieth Division, with 
its centre at the village of Masnieres, was the 
Twenty -ninth Di vision, a good unit to have in 
the. heart of such a crisis, The Twenty- ninth 
and Sixth Divisions held the centre of the 
British line that day and were the solid nucleus 
upon which the whole battle hinged both to 
left and ritfht f them. Both divisions were 
seriously compromised by the push-back to the 
south of them, and their battery positions were 

taken in reverse, but they held the whole of 
their ground without giving an inch and com- 
pletely beat off every German attack 
Guernsey battalion made its mark in the fighting 
that day and rendered most excellent service, 
as did the Newfoundlanders ; but the main 
strength of the divisions lay,, of course, in their 
disciplined British veterans, men whose war- 
hardened faces, whether in GaHipoli or Flanders, 
had never been turned -from an enemy. It is 
no light matter to drive such a force, and the 
four German divisions who drove in from 
Masnieres to Bauteaux were unable to mate 
even a dint in that formidable tine* I" r 
two days the villages! both Marcoing and 
Masnieres, ~<rcrc firTiJy held, and when at last 






* -^ 




£1 readjustment of the line was ordered it was 
carried out voluntarily and deliberately in 
accordance with the new plans made necessary 
by the events in north and south. 

In this great fight the 86th Brigade was on 
the right at Masnieres with the 1 6th Middlesex 
upon the right, the 1st Lancashire Fusiliers 
upon the left, and the 2nd Royal Fusiliers by 
the sugar factory east of the village — details 
which have been rescued by the industry of 
MEr. Percival Phillips. The 87th Brigade ex- 
tended to the left* covering a wide front as far 
as the Cambrai Road, The 1st Inniskillings 
were on their right, the 1st Borderers on their 
left, and the and South Wales Eorderers in 
support. The 88th Brigade was 11; it 

the time of the attack, but quickly moved up 
and was in the heart of the subsequent fighting* 
Masses of German infantry wore reported at 
Crevecceur* and within a very short time a 
rush of grey infantry was swirling down past tha 
flank of the Middlesex men, and breaking the 
connection with the Twentieth Division on tha 
right, Some of the assailants got along the 
south bank and actually seized Lcs Rues Yertes 
at the same moment tliat a counter-attack by 
the Guernsey men swept into the village and 
drove them out again. This was a really vital 
point, as the capture and retention of the village 
would have been most serious, Many soldierly 
actions were pe^crmed ir. this clash of arms, 
showing thM t&e mechanical side oi modorn 



warfare can never quite eliminate the brave 
pushing heart and the strong arm. Captain 
Gee, of the* Staff, among others rescued an 
ammunition dump, armed with a revolver and 
with a heavy stick with which he beat down all 
opposition at the cost of a serious wound to 
himself — a fair price to pay for a ^subsequent 
V.C. The Germans were foiled for the moment, 
but they had found the weak spot in the line, 
and all day they hammered at it with charac- 
teristic tenacity, while all day the men of the 
Twenty-ninth stood up to one attack after 
another, their dwindling line fraying to the last 
degree but never breaking before the enemy. 
Les Rues Vertes became ^ Golgotha of Germans, 
but it was still in the evening safe in the hands 
of the British defenders. One of the classical 
examples of British courage and discipline 
during the war, fit to rank with Colonel Pears 
and his cancer at Oviilers, was furnished by 
Colonel Forbes Robertspn, of the 16th Middlesex, 
now a V.C, who, stricken in both eyes and 
temporarily blind, was still led by his orderly 
up and down the line in order to steady it. Let 
such a story help our descendants to realize the 
kind of men who stood between Germany and 
the conquest of the world. 

Next morning saw no surcease of the fighting 
in this quarter of the field. If anything, the 
ranks of the assailants were thicker and their 
rushes more insistent upon the morning of the 
21st. But the Twenty-ninth had called up its 
reserves, and stood with every bristle on end 
across the German path. The trouble behind 
the line had greatly weakened the artillery 
support, but the trench mortars gave all the 
help possible to the hardworked infantry. The 
villages were knocked to pieces by the enemy 
guns, but the British stuck like leeches to the 
ruins. The Brigadier of the 86th Brigade was 
among his men in the front of the battle, 
encouraging them to dwell upon their aim and 
steadying their weary ranks. The 87th Brigade, 
in the north, though itself attacked, spared some 
reinforcements for the hard-pressed men in the 
south. Once Les Rues Vertes was lost, but a 
counter-attack won it back again. This was 
still the position when, on the night of December 
1st, the orders were given for the general re- 
adjustment of the line by the evacuation of the 
Masni&res Salient. Well might Sir Douglas Haig 
send a special order to the]G.O.C.,General De Lisle, 
thanking him for the magnificent services ren- 
dered during two days and a night by the 
Twenty-ninth Division. 


The Guards, who had been drawn out after 
their hard spell of service in the Bourlon attack, 
were moving into a rest-camp behind the lines 
when they were stopped by the amazing tidings 
that the British line was broken, and that the 
Germans were scattered anywhere over the 
undulating country in front of them. It was 
eleven-fifteen, and they were marching from the 
hamlet of Met z when the first news of disaster 
reached them — news which was very quickly 
followed by signs, as gunners were met coming 

Diqi'.i OOfilC 

back with the sights and sometimes the broken 
breech-blocks of their abandoned guns in their 
hands. Over the ridge between Metz and the 
Gouzeaucourt Wood a number of gunners, 
sappers, and infantry came in driblets, none of 
them hurrying, but all with a bewildered air as 
though uncertain what to do. To these worried 
and broken people the sight of the taut lines of 
the Guards must indeed have been a great stay 
in their trouble. The Guards moved forward in 
the direction of the .turmoil, but their progress 
was slow, as there were gun-teams upon the narrow 
road. The first brigade was leading, being the unit 
which had suffered least in the Bourlon fighting. 
The young Brigadier, General de Crespigny, a 
dashing but cool-headed soldier, galloped ahead 
in an effort to clear up the situation, and after 
doing a mile or so across country he suddenly 
saw the grey coats of German infantry among 
the trees around him. Riding back, he halted 
his brigade in a hollow by Gouzeaucourt Wood, 
fixed bayonets, and then, deploying them into 
the line, advanced them in extended order across 
the fields. From in front there came an occasional 
shell, with the constant cracking of machine- 
guns, which increased as they topped the low 
ridge before them. -< We advanced into the 
blue in perfect lines," says one who was present. 
Once under fire the brigade went forward in 
short rushes of alternate companies. " Our 
fellows were not shouting," says the same 
witness, " but chatting among themselves, and 
smiling in a manner that boded in for the Huns." 
The 2nd Coldstreams were on the right, the 
3rd in the centre, and the 1st Irish upon the 
left, with the 2nd Grenadiers in close support. 
As the brigade came upon the fringes of the 
German advance they swept them up before 
them, keeping the Metz Gouzeaucourt Road as 
their right boundary, while a force of dismounted 
cavalry moved up upon the farther side. The 
Irish upon the left passed through the wood, 
and broke with a yell about 2 p.m. into Gouzeau- 
court Village, which was not strongly held. The 
Germans bolted from the eastern exits, and the 
Guardsmen passing through made a line beyond, 
getting in touch upon the left -with the 
4th Grenadier Guards of the 3rd Brigade, which 
formed up and advanced upon that side. They 
were aided in this advance by a small detached 
body representing the Headquarters Guard of 
the Twenty-ninth Division and by a company 
of North Midland R.E., who held their post 
inviolate all day, and were now very glad to join 
in an offensive. As they advanced, beyond the 
village they came into a very heavy fire, for 
the St. Quentin Ridge faced them, and it bristled 
with machine-guns, field-guns, and 59's were 
also playing upon them, but nothing could check 
that fine advance, which was in time to save a 
number of heavy guns which could by no removed. It was itself aided in 
the later stages by a brigade of guns of the 47th 
London Division, which swung into action 
straight from the fine of march and did good 
service in supporting the attack. By nightfall 
the total ground gained was over two miles in 
depth, anu a c!e£imm; line of Guardsmen and 




cavalry covered all thia section of the field, 
limiting and defining the German advance. 
General Byng must surely have breathed more 
freely when the good news reached his head- 
quarters, for, but for this energetic operation, 
there was nothing to prevent the Germans 
flooding into tile country behind and getting to 
the rear of the whole northern portion of the 
Third Army. 

The further operations of the Guards upon 
the next morning can only be given in a more 
extended account ; meanwhile we may say of 
these operations that they were the first trury 
success ful offensive on a large scale which the 
enemy had made since the gas attack upon 
April 22nd, 191 5, nearly two and a half years 
before, and it would be 
a sign of a poor spirit if 
we did not admit it, and 
applaud thedeftnessand 
courage of the attack. 



We shall now turn 
to the northern sector, 
which extends from 
Tadpole Copse, upon 
the left, to that solid 
centre of resistance fur- 
nished by the two 
veteran divisions at 
Marcoing and at Mas- 
niftres. It was upon 
the left of this curve 
that the German attack 
broke upon November 
30th from the Hindcn- 
burg Line to the village 
of Fontaine, a front of 
about six miles. The 
it tack, which began 
about nine o'clock, dif- 
fered from that on the 
south, because the ele- 
ment of surprise was 
wanting and because 
the ground was such 
that the attacking 
troops could be plainly 

seen. The final result was to push back the 
British line j but this was mainly as a read- 
justment to correspond to the change in the 
south* To effect this small result all accounts 
are agreed in stating that the Germans incurred 
such murderous losses that it is improbable that 
any have been more severe since the early days 
of the war* If on the balance the British lost 
the day in the south they gained it in the north, 
for, with limited loss to themselves* they inflicted 
most severe punishment upon the enemy. 

The arrangement of the troops upon the 
northern curve of the battle line was as follows* 
Forming a defensive flank between the old 
British line and Tadpole Copse was the i6Sth 
Brigade, and to its right, facing Moenvres, the 
169th Brigade, both of them of the Fifty-sixth 
London Territorial Division, which had Deen a 
VoL IviL-a 

week in the lighting line and was very worn- 
Next to them, upon the right, was the Second 
Regular Division, from Mceuvres to Bourlon, with 
elements of the 5th, 6th, and cuth Brigades in 
front. Upon their right was the Forty-seventh 
London Territorial Division, occupying the line 
drawn through Bourlon Wood. Upon their right 
again were the Fifty -ninth South Midland 
Territorials, near Fontaine, who in turn linked 
up with the left of the Sbrth Division, thus 
completing the semicircle of battle, 


After a short but very severe bombardment 
the German infantry advanced upon the line 
from Tadpole Copse to Bourlon Wood, a front 

X RBSS 3 Sou, 


of about four miles. There were four fresh 
German divisions, with three others in reserve, 
and the attack was driven on with the utmost 
resolution, falling upon the outlying British 
outposts with a force winch often destroyed 
them, although the furious resistance of these 
scattered bodies of men took all the edge off 
the onslaught. It was also beaten into the earth 
by the British artillery, which had wonderfully 
fine targets as the stormers in successive line* 
came pouring over the open ground between 
Mceuvres and Bourlon, The artillery of the 
Fiftieth Division had been left in the line, and a 
gunner officer of this unit described now hit 
guns swung round and enfiladed the German 
attack upon the right as it stormed up to the 
line of the Forty-seventh Division. rf It was 

- ""wmt&mfoir ""° b,ed 



to the fact that the Boches were attacking, and 
had driven in some of the Second Division posts. 
This battery swung its guns round at right 
angles, getting on to the advancing enemy in 
enfilade and over open sights. Every other 
battery in the country opened within five 
minutes." Every observer agrees that the 
targets were wonderful, and that it was only in 
places where the ground gave him protection 
that the German, storm troops could reach the 
expectant British infantry, who received him 
with such a murderous fire of rifles and Lewis 
guns that his dead were heaped thickly along 
the whole front. 

Taking the action from the left, the outposts 
of the 169th Brigade were driven in, but put up 
a series of desperate fights. From Mceuvres to 
Tadpole Copse the action raged, and then 
extending round the British left wing the enemy 
poured out from the back of that portion of the 
Hindenburg Line which ran upon the flank of 
the 168th Brigade, so that both units were 
involved in heavy fighting, with a limited field 
of fire which gave fewer advantages to the 
defence than were fbund on the rest of the line. 
The •Westminsters, the London Scottish, the 
Post Office Rifles, and the 2nd Londons all bore 
themselves with special bravery in* a long day 
of desperate fighting, during which commanding 
officers were in at least one instance compelled 
to .stand, bomb in hand, defending their own 
headquarters. It was a grim battle and the 
losses were heavy, coming upon troops which 
had already lost enough to shake the moral of 
any ordinary infantry ; but the thin ranks held 
firm and the positions were retained. At one 
time the Germans were round the right flank 
oi the 169th Brigade, and so cut off a company 
of the 13th Essex. There is a wonderfully dour 
military spirit amongst these East Saxons. It 
was an anxious situation, and it was saved by 
the utter self-abnegation of the company in 
question, who held a hurried council of war in 
which they swore to fight to the death. This 
grim gathering, which might furnish a theme 
for a great artist, consisted of Captain ^Robinson, 
Lieutenant Corps, Sergeant-Major Edwards, 
Platoon Sergeants Phillips, Parsons, Fairbrass, 
Lodge, and Legg. With a hand-clasp they returned 
to their work, and during the whole night their 
rifle-fire could be heard, though no help could 
reach them. In the morning they lay with their 
faces to the sky and their men around them, all 
true to their vow to death. It is a story to 

The left flank of the Second Division was held 
by this same 13th Essex, the 2nd South Stafford, 
and 1 7th Middlesex Battalions of the 6th Brigade. 
This brigade was cut into two parts by the 
Canal du Nord, a huge trough of brickwork 
without any water, eighty feet across, with 
steep sloping sides. The bridges across were 
swept by German fire, and the only transit was 
by ropes to help the climber. All day the fight 
raged furiously here, the Germans within bombing 
distance of the defence, which wis never pene- 
trated for an instant. Save for one small 
isolated trench, with about seventy men, this 

whole line held firm against every form of 

Snipers and bombers fired across from bank 
to baril^ while down in the dried bed of the Canal 
there was constant close-range fighting* All 
night the difficult post was' held, as was the line 
on the extreme left, where the 17th Middlesex 
were bowling back every attack wifh their well- 
sustained fire; 'iThere was no more wonderful 
individual record in the battle than that of 
Captain MacReady-Diarmid, of the 17th Mid- 
dlesex, who fought like a cTArtagnan of Romance, 
and is said to have killed some eighty of the 
enemy in two days of fighting before he himself 
at last met that fate' from which he had. never 
shrunk. . A V.C. was assigned to his family. 

On the right of the 6th Brigade was the 99th 
Brigade, the victors of Delvilie Wpod, who were 
also furiously engaged, meeting such waves of 
German infantry as . were able to get past the 
zone of the British barrage. German field-guns 
unlimbered suddenly on the crest looking down 
on the British lines only a few hundred yards 
off. The crews were shot down so swiftly that 
only one gun £pt back in three rounds. Then 
there came a rush of two battalions in full 
marching order, debouching in fours from 
Bourlon Village, and deploying in the open. 
These also were shot to bits. The whole front 
of the brigade was dotted with broken guns and 
huddled grey figures, while many despairing of 
getting back threw up their hands and. sought 
refuge in the British lines. Battalion after 
battalion was thrown in at this point until the 
best part of a division was spread bleeding ;oyer 
some twenty acres of ground. The three 
battalions chiefly engaged, the 1st Berkshires, 
17th Royal Fusiliers, and 1st Rifles, "from right 
to left, had such a day as trench warfare could 
never afford. 

At the outset the force of the attack pressed 
back the 1st Berkshiresj upon the right, together 
with the left wing of the Forty-seventh Division. 
For a few moments the situation was alarming. 
However, after>hree hours of ding-dong fighting, 
the volume of fire was too much for the stormers, 
and they fell back. At the same time the 17th 
Royal Fusiliers, who had rallied under cover of 
their outposts, shot down everything in front of 
them. The 1st K.R.R. had a day of wonderful 
fighting — snipers, rifle grenadiers, Lewis gunners, 
and machine gunners were all equally glutted 
with slaughter , t " The Germans in mass forma- 
tion came on in waves offering a splendid 
target at a range of from fifteen hundred yards 
to point-blank. In addition, they were enfiladed 
by the machine gunners and subjected to very 
heavy fire from our guns for two and a half 
hours. The second attempt never looked like 
succeeding and was smothered in a very short 

The 17th Royals have been mentioned as 
being 1 in the line at this point, though they really 
belonged to the 5th Brigade. The fact was that 
in a previous operation they had won a long 
trench advancing at right-angles to the British 
position and leading up to the Germans. This 
was called ths Rat s lad on account of its shape, 




and it was still occupied by the Royals when the 
attack broke out, so that they were placed in a 
most difficult position and were pressed back 
down this long trench fighting a desperate rear- 
guard action, as will be told later. Their presence 
; n the *Rat's Tail was the more unfortunate as it 
helped to screen the Germans and to contract 
the fire-field of the main line behind tnem. 
After clearing the Rat's Tail the remains of the 
battalion found themselves upon the right of 
the ist K.R.R. 

The remaining brigade of the division, the 
5th, had some of its men also imthe front line and 
as busy as its comrades. It is stated in the 
account aUfiy quoted that even the wounded 
men of the 2nd H.L.I, were propped up, so that 
they might continue to fire upon the Germans. 
It was a brigade which had suffered many an 
evil quarter of an hour in the past, and it is no 
wonder that the men took a fierce joy in such a 
fight when at last they could meet their hated 
enemy face to face. Side by side with the 
Highlanders were those veterans of 19 14, the 
2nd Oxford and Bucks, the battalion that broke 
the Prussian Guard. They also had many an 
arrear to wipe off, nor were their less experienced 
comrades of the Royal Fusiliers less intent upon 
the work in hand. It was a costly experience 
for the War-Lord and his legions. 

In the evening, save for the one loss at the 
Canal Lock, which has been, already recorded, 
the whole three-thousand-fi^e-hundred-yard 
front of the Second Division stood inviolate, 
and was clearly defined when the "British force 
withdrew by the thick pile of German dead 
which marked it. Indeed, it is claimed that 
at the end of the day the posts which 
were thrown forward by the defenders were 
more advanced than before the attack had 
broken. Those posts which had been over- 
whelmed in the morning were found to have 
perished most gloriously, for, in almost every 
case, the British dead were ringed round with 
the bodies of their assailants. Among the many 
epics of these isolated posts none is more glorious 
than that of a platoon of the 17th Fusiliers under 
the two company officers, Captain Stone and 
Lieutenant Benzesry, both mentioned in 
despatches, who fought absolutely to the last 
man in order to give time for the main body 
behind them to get ready for the assault. The 
official report of the officer commanding says : 
" The rearguard was seen fighting with bayonet, 
bullet, and bomb to the last. There was- no 
survivor." The annals of war can give few 
finer examples of military virtue. 

Another splendid epic had been furnished by 
the posts of the ist Berkshire Battalion, upon 
the right of the Second Division. They were 
all drawn from one company under the command 
of Lieutenant Valentin. The Germans surged in 
upon them in the afternoon, and there was a most 
grim and terrible fight. Three of the posts were 
destroyed, but when the ground was regained it 
was difficult to find the British bodies on account 
of the piles of German dead which were heaped 
round and over them. Six other posts remained 

intact after six hours of close fighting, in which 
they were continually attacked by superior 
numbers who fell in heaps before the steady fire 
of these experienced soldiers. Rapid-fire had 
bsen brought to perfection by the training 
system of the Second Division, and its general 
was justified of his wisdom. The six weary 
posts which remained intact after the storm had 
passed are said to have killed no fewer than five 
hundred of their assailants. 

The 47th London Territorial Division, upon 
the right, had endured a similar experience to 
that of their regular comrades of the Second 
Division, and the 140th Brigade, upon the left, 
had been particularly strongly engaged. The 
6th London Rifles and the 15th Civil Service 
Rifles held the post of honour, and the conditions 
were much the same as those already described, 
save that the field of fire was more restricted. 
In the afternoon attack a gap was formed 
between these two battalions, but was quickly 
closed by one of those heterogeneous musters 
of signallers, orderlies, and general utility men 
who have so often done good and unobtrusive 
service — silent supers who suddenly spring into 
the limelight, play the part of the hero, and then 
fade away to the wings once more. This attack 
of the afternoon fell with great force upon the 
right unit of the division, the 141st Brigade, who 
lay in their gas-masks half poisoned with mephitic 
vapours among the brushwood of Bourlon 
Forest. These fine troops, the London Irish, 
Poplar, St. Pancras, and Blackheath Battalions, 
endured all that gun or gas could do, and held 
their whole line intact until the "evening. 


So ended the swaying fortunes of the hard- 
fought and dramatic battle, beginning with a 
surprise attack of the British upon the Germans, 
and ending by an attack of the Germans upon 
the British, which, if not a surprise to the com- 
manders, at least produced some surprising and 
untoward results. The balance of these varied 
actions was greatly in favour of the British, and 
yet it could not be denied that something of the 
glory and satisfaction of Byng's splendid original 
victory were dimmed by this unsatisfactory 
epilogue. On the balance in ground gained the 
British had a solid grip of eleven thousand yards 
of the famous Hindenburg line, as against an 
unimportant British section between Vendhuille 
and Gonnelieu. In prisoners the British had 
eleven thousand as against six thousand claimed 
by the Germans. In guns, the British took or 
destroyed one hundred and forty-five against 
one hundred taken or destroyed by their enemies. 
In the larger field of strategy the whole episode 
was fruitful, as it stopped all reinforcement of 
the Germans in Italy during the critical weeks 
while the Italians were settling. down upon the 
line of the Piave. One result of the action was a 
reorganization of the British machine-gun system, 
which was found to have acted in an unequal 
fashion during the operations, some formations 
giving excellent results while others were .less 


Head Waitress r ^ 
l/Tlie DuctT 

I Keble Howard 


©OK at it what 

way you will/' 

said Landlord 

Floot w it's a 

thing to hap- 


11 After all these 
years," sighed Mrs. 
Floot. ** 1 don't want 
to say anything against 
your Aunt Sophy, 
specially now the poor 
old things dead and 
gone, but she always 
had a tiresome, aggra- 
v a t i n g, do minceri ng 
way with her/' 

M That's just it/' 
agreed the landlord, 
M She had. And so 
has my sister Char- 
lotte. They were as 
like as two peas. I 
might have known 
from that how Aunt 
Sophy would lea% r c 
her half- share in the 
" E x c e 1 1 e n t 1 " 
chuckled Lawyer Beard more, stirring the slice 
of lemon in his empty glass. " Excellent, 
Mr, Floot I Not a man in the town can beat 
you for a jest when you're so minded I " 

"Jest ? " repeated Floot, " I meant no jest, 
Mr. Beard more. I haven't felt less like jesting 
these ten years. I suppose there's no chance 
of a mistake in the will ? No other way of 
reading it ? Pt 

The anxious couple fixed their eyes on the 
lawyer. They were simple, kindly people, " well 
spoken of " by high and low in Great Pulford 
and the neighbourhood. Their house was noted 
as muchjor their sinning faces as for the excellent 

quality of their 
liquor and their 
generous measures. 
The prospect of a 
cold lunch, or a 
hot dinner, or a 
weuVaired bed at 
the Duck had 
cheered many and 
many a traveller 
over the long and 
lonely roads that 
led to Great Pul- 

The lawyer 
shook his head. 
" The meaning of 
the will is as plain 
as a pikestaff, Mr. 
Floot. Your Aunt 
Sophy leaves her 
half -share in this 
house, the contents, 
and the goodwill to 
your sister Char- 
lotte, the said 
Charlotte to have 
an equal say with 
yourself in the 
management of the 

house, and to be at liberty to dispose of her 
half -share to any person at any time should she 
so choose. But, after all, why be so down in the 
mouth about it ? Wriy should she choose ? 
Where could she find a better investment for 
her money ? " 

" It isn't that," replied Floot, mournfully. 
44 I J m not afraid of her selling her share. I wish 
she would. I'd buy it of her myself What I'm 
afraid of is the equal aay in the management. 
I know my sister Charlotte, Mr. Beard more; 
you don't. She'd be a match even for you— let 
alone an easy- goi i . n ft oM chap li ke me * 1 1 's a nasty 



" But why run away with the idea," per- 
sisted the lawyer, " that she'y want to interfere ? 
As lijce as not she'll never come near the place." 

" Never come neai the place ? " echoed the 
landlord. " Why, man alive, she's coming 

" We had a postcard this morning," moaned 
Mrs. Floot. 

" But not to stay ? " queried the lawyer. 
" Just to have a look at her property and then 
off again, I'll Wr bound ! " 

" Give me the postcard, Maggie. Now, Mr. 
Beardmore, listen to this : ' Shall arrive Thurs- 
day, with luggage, by the 3.15. Send omnibus 
to the station, and keep nice room with good 
view, .Furniture coming later by goods.' That 
don't look like off again, eh, Mr. Beardmore ? " 

The lawyer had to admit that it did not. By 
way of consoling the perturbed couple, he 
annexed another drop of the landlord's fast- 
dwindling stock of whisky, added a " lump of 
sugar from his pocket, helped' himself to hot 
water from the kettle on the cheerful hob, 
uttered a platitude or two, and presently took 
his leave. 

" Maggie," said Mr. Floot, " this is our last 
night of peace and comfort in the old Duck. 
I'm sorry, old lady, but it isn't my fault. We 
must make the best of the situation. ' Them as 
worry don't trust, and them as trusts don't 
worry/ You know my favourite motto. So 
cheer up, put a good face on it, and don't, what- 
ever you do, get to cross-purposes with Charlotte 
if you can avoid it. If the worst comes to the 
worst, I'll sell out myself and leave her in 
possession. Now you toddle off into the kitchen, 
and 111 have a look at the gentlemen in the 

They turned down the gas in the office-sitting- 
room, exchanged a kiss in the flickering firelight, 
and went about their various duties. The bar- 
parlour was soon ringing with jolly, unaffected 
laughter. The old landlord had got to work 
with his jocosities. 

But his heart was filled with forebodings. As 
for Mrs. Floot, the spoon with which she basted 
the roast lamb for the table d'hdte felt like a ton 
weight in her hand. 

Miss Charlotte Floot duly arrived by the 
3.15 train the following afternoon. She was a 
large woman, with black hair, a stern mouth, 
and a terrifying eye. The landlord himself went 
to meet her. 

" Well, David," said Charlotte, eyeing him 
intently, " you've aged." 

" Have I, Charlotte ? Well, I can't say the 
same for you. You don't look a day older." 

" I know it. I take care of myself. I deny 
myself. No luxuries. An austere life is the way 
to make old bones. Where's the fly ? " 

" I ordered the bus, Charlotte. I thought, 

with all your luggage " 

" All my luggage ? All what luggage ? 
Haven't you a cart for luggage, man ? I'm 
surprised at you, David, asking me to ride in 
the bus. You appear to have forgotten that I 
am now your partner 1 " 

" I wish I could ! " thought Mr. Floot. 

•' It's clear," continued Charlotte, " that I 
have come on the scene not a moment too soon. 
You never had a genius for business, and the 
goodwill of the hotel tfiust be going to rack and 
ruin. Ill look into it. Fit soon put things to 

" I wouldn't make too many changes, Char- 
lotte, just at first. It's an old-fashioned place, 
you see, and my patrons are a bit old-fashioned, 
and they seem to like things done in the old- 
fashioned way. We get along very nicely. 
We're all very happy together. I shouldn't like 
to offend the patrons with too many changes 
just at first." 

" You needn't talk to me as though I were a 
born idiot, David. I sha'n't offend the customers 
as long as they behave themselves. But I won't 
put up with any nonsense, either. It's a privilege 
to use my hotel, and that's the way they must 
look at it. Is that your wife in the doorway ? " 

" Aye, Charlotte, that's poor Maggie." 

" You may well call her poor Maggie. I never 
saw a woman so changed. Well, Maggie! 
You've aged." 

" Have I, Charlotte ? Ah, well, we can't any 
of us expect to stay young for ever. Come right 
into the parlour. I've got a nice cup of tea 
ready for you I " 

" Never take tea I Given it up these five 
years. Bad for the digestion. Bad for the 
nerves. A glass of hot water is sufficient for 
anyone at this time of day, and that don't cost 

The hot water sipped, and the luggage bestowed 
in the best bedroom, the old couple escorted Miss 
Floot over the hotel. 

" What's this ? " she inquired, tartly. 

" That's the bar-parlour, Charlotte. My little 
province. It's well known in Great Pulford and 
round, is the bar-parlour at the Duck. We 
have quite a company of an evening, don't we, 
Maggie ? " 

"Musty ! " declared Charlotte. " Smells 
nfusty. Pipes ! Beastly things, pipes ! There 
should be a notice up : 'No pipes allowed/ 
That would give the hotel tone." 

"No pipes ? " cried the landlord. " But, my 
dear Charlotte, we should be ruined 1 Every- 
body smokes a pipe these days. Cigars are 
prohibitive in price. I smoke a pipe myself." 

" Well, all I can say is, don't expect to see 
me in your bar-parlour." 

" No, Charlotte, I won't. I wouldn't, not 
on no account. It's no place for you, my dear. 
You keep out of it." 

" Thank you, David ; I can take care of 
myself. What's this ? " 

" This is the still-room," said Mrs. Floot, 
meekly. " I preside here." 

" Dirty ! " pronounced Charlotte. " Dirty' 
and dark. You want those curtains down, and 
the whole place distempered." 

Mrs. Floot, swallowing an angry rejoinder, 
slipped her hand into the landlord's warm, , 
strong fist. He gave it a squeeze, and they 
both felt bettetigi 

" And this, I suppose, is the dining-room ? " 



H Yes, Charlotte. At least, we call it the 
coffee-room. A bit old-fashioned* no doubt, 
but the patrons seem to expect us to be a bit 
old-fashioned, Nice room, ain't it ? '* 

14 It could be. perhaps. Those green and red 
glasses are awful. So's the picture of the stag 
drinking, and the big mirror over the mantel, 
and the red loops to the curtains. I'll tell you 
what it is, David, You can keep your bar- 
parlour and poor Maggie can keep her still- 
room, This shall be my department/* 

" The coifee-room, Charlotte ? But in what 
capacity ? '* 

" The dining-room, if you please. I constitute 
myself head waitress." 


Miss Floot soon made herself felt in Great 
Fulford. On the third evening after her arrival, 
Tom Moody, the auctioneer, turned into the 

Yes, miss. 


Duck for a much-needed meal. He gave a 
cheery nod to the company in the bar-parlour 
as he passed by. and then, all unconscious of the 
reception awaiting him, hurried to the dining- 

Miss Floot, dark, tall, and forbidding, was 
giving a final touch to the table appointments, 

" 'Evening 1 " cried Tom Moody, dropping 
wearily into his favourite chain 

" You can't sit there/' said Charlotte. 

" Can J t I, my dear ? How's that ? " 

** That table's for four. Are you alone ? * p 

" Why, yes, my dear, except for your charming 
company 1 M 

" When L wish for compliments Til ask for 
them. I'm not a barmaid. Kindly take this 

" Oh, very well, very well I I'm too hungry 
to argue the point, though I've sat at that 
table for the last twenty years. I'll take what's 
going, miss, and please to bring me a sherry 
and bitters to start with/' 

" No cocktails allowed in this room. If you 
must have a sherry and bitters, you know where 
to get it." 

Tom Moody stared as though the big soup* 
tureen on the sideboard had suddenly broken 
into a pas seal. What in the world had hap- 
pened to the old Duck ? Was Floot crazy r to 
engage a woman like this as head waitress ? 

However, he did without the sherry and 
bitters and went on with the soup* That was 
as good as ever, and likewise the fish, but he 
couldn't enjoy his dinner. It didn't taste right- 
" Have you your ration-book ? n inquired 

tfcre it is/' 

" That's no good. You've 
only a half-coupon left. You 
can't have any beef/' 

"No beef? But I'm 
starving I They never used 
to ask for more than a half- 
coupon in the old days/* 

"The old days/' said 
Charlotte, icily, " have gone, 
never to return." 

"Gh t that's it is it?" 
The auctioneer, a quick- 
tempered man always, rose 
from his chair and flung his 
napkin to the floor, "Then 
IH go as well, never to 
return — until Floot gets a 
head waitress that knows 
how to treat an old cus- 
tomer with proper respect/' 
Charlotte barred his exit. 
ff Five shillings, please." 

" You can whistle for it ! 
Here's a couple of bob- I've 
had no diiiiier." 

" You 11 pay five shillings, 
or I shall whistle for a 
policeman I " 

They looked at each other- 
Moody knew well enough he 
liad no redress. He must 
pay the five shillings, and take his revenge hy 
boycotting the house and spreading the story 
all over the town, 

Landlord Floot saw his old friend pass tha 
door of the bar-parlour at five miles an hour. 
He was not surprised. He had overheard the 
dialogue from the foot of the stairs. 

Poor Maggie cried herself to sleep that night. 


Something must be done. Everybody felt that. 
After all, the town had a sort of vested interest 
in the Duck. It was more than a mere hotel. 
It was an institution, almost as much so as the 
Com Exchange: and thv. .Market Cross and the 
- Old|^fi^|j^n^^^|^p|tjone woman, and 



a stranger at that, should set to work to destroy 
an institution. 

Miss Floot, you understand, was not to be 
discouraged. She was a person of principle. 
She always had been and always would be. 
With her, self-respect was first, principle next, 
and human nature nowhere. She had no 
interest whatever in human nature, save as a 
vanity to be squashed and thrown aside. 

Something, therefore, must be done. The 
dining-room at the Duck, except for chance 
custom, was empty. Mr. Stygle, the leading 
confectioner, and Mr. Brookhouse, the wealthy 
fanner, and Mr. Neck, * the draper, and Mr. 
Leuty, the house decorator, had all met with 
rebuffs similar' to that of Tom Moody. The 
only person to whom Miss Floot was at all 
civil was Mr. Beardmore, the lawyer. Mr. 
Beardmore could see no. harm in Miss Floot. 
But then Beardmore, as everybody knew, liad 
been entrusted with Miss Floot 's " affairs," and 
Beardmore would have poisoned his mother for 

Yes, Great Pulford was up in arms. Great 
Pulford was a spirited little town. It had had 
its own riot. The Great Pulford Riot was a 
matter of history. Everybody had been con- 
cerned in the riot, even the vicar. There had 
been pictures of the riot in the Police Gazette ! 
Likely that Great Pulford would sit calmly by 
and see the Duck converted into a mission -room ! 

Besides, Great Pulford was warm-hearted, and 
it could not bear to see poor old Floot and his 
wife so down in the mouth. The landlord never 
jested now, and Mrs. Floot had taken to crying 
in church. Many of the other matrons would 
then cry in sympathy. Once, in the very middle 
of his sermon, the vicar had been startled by 
the sound of violent sobbing. -He had, rather 
tactlessly, selected for his text, " And the river 
shall £warm with frogs, which shall go up and 
come into thine house." This was altogether 
too much for poor Maggie. She had fought back 
her sobs as long as she could, but they had their 
way at last. 

It was Tom Moody who helped the poor lady 
down the aisle. And it was Tom Moody who, 
no later than that same evening, called a few 
of his old cronies together and held a council 
of war. 

Charlotte Floot knew nothing of this episode. 
She was a chapel-goer, and was wont to pray 
with considerable fluency for the regeneration 
of the regular patrons of the Duck. Lawyer 
Beardmore would escort her from the hotel to 
the chapel and home again. Beardmore was a 
widower. Great Pulford, you may be sure, 
knew well enough what to make of that. 

A few days later, Landlord Floot, slightly 
shaky with excitement, tapped at the door of 
his sister's private sitting-room. 

" Come in," called Miss Floot. 

Floot entered, and closed the door softly 
behind him. 

M Charlotte," he said, " I have some good 

M Well ? n returned Charlotte, sceptically. 
She was no believer in good news. Her thirst 

for bad news, on the other hand, .was insatiable. 
She had never been so happy as in the early 
days of the war. 

" I have just received an order for a banquet, 
Charlotte. Covers for no less than twenty ! 
What d'you think of that ? " 

" I cannot profess to be surprised. I. knew 
that my methods would pay in the long run. 
The rise in the tone of this hotel has evidently 
been noised abroad. You must charge a stiff 
price per head." 

" Oh, there's no bother about that. Ten-and- 
six per head is to be the charge, and champagne 
will be ordered. We must do the" thing well, 
Charlotte. The best service and silver. Alder- 
man Pollock, the Mayor, is to be in the chair. 
It's a long time since we had such a swagger 
affair at the Duck." 

"I presume you 'realize, David, to whom 
thanks are due ? " 

" I do, Charlotte." The landlord turned away, 
covering his mouth with his hand. 

" So much the better. I hope that foolish 
wife of yours is equally grateful ? " 

" Oh, Maggie is very grateful, Charlotte. The 
poor thing is quite animated already. I left her 
polishing the silver soup-ladle. You'll want 
assistance for the waiting, but don't you worry 
on that score. I'll see to that. You shall have 
all the help you require. Covers for twenty 1 
And the Mayor in the chair 1 There'll be 
speeches, Charlotte 1 I dare say I shall have 
to make a little speech ! You won't mind, will 
you ? " 

" If the fortunes of the house are proposed, 
David, I shall reply. My experience at the 
chapel will prove invaluable." 

The great night arrived at last, and all the 
preparations were complete. One long table 
occupied the whole length of the dining-room, 
and the damask tablecloth — an heirloom, hand- 
woven by poor Maggie's grandmother — fairly 
gleamed with pride beneath the smooth silver 
and lovely old glass. 

The special assistant-waitresses had not yet 
arrived — they were actually coming from 
London ! — but Miss Charlotte Floot was there 
in her best black and her iciest mood. She 
had been told of the Great Pulford Riot. Let 
there be the slightest attempt at rioting to-night, 
and they would very quickly see with whom 
they had to deal. 

Laughter and jokes in the bar-parlour below. 
Sherry-and-bitters, no doubt ! Well, the first 
man to betray the faintest sign of inebriety 
would be taken by the ear and led from the 
room, even though it should be the Mayor him- 
self. Such a blow for the repression of hilarity 
should be struck in Great Pulford this night as 
the town would not forget for a couple of 

Now they were coming up — twenty gross men 
trampling on the staircloth ! No. She was 
wrong. Nineteen gnfts men and Mr. Beardmore, 
the lawyer. She was glad to remember that he 



would be of the party. Such a high-principled 
man ! And so devoted to her and her interests ! 

They took their seats and the soup was* served. 
Landlord Floot assisted in the serving, all the 
time apologizing to his sister in an undertone 
for the non-arrival of the special waitresses* 
But they would be here, no doubt, by the very 
next train* 

Pop went' the champagne I It might have 
been Peace Night f Ah, well I It's a poor heart 
that never rejoices, and everyone felt better for 
the cheerful sizz in the glasses as the landlord 
went the rounds I Everyone, that is, but Char- 
lotte, No High Executioner could have stalked 
through his awful duties with half the solemnity 
that Miss Floot brought to the dispensing of the 
boiled turbot. 

Now the tongues began wagging. There had 
been, up to this, a slight air of bravado about 
the company, a something furtive, an atmo- 
sphere that suggested a group of naughty boys 
hatching mischief under the eye of a relentless 
schoolmistress. With the first glass of cham- 
pagne, that disappeared, Tom Moody toasted 
the Mayor, and the Mayor raised his glass to 
Mr. Moody. Mr. Stygle wished long life and 
increased prosperity to Mr. Neck, and Mr. Neck 
replied in heartfelt terms. Mr. Brookhouse paid 
3 warm compliment to Mr* 
Leuty, and Mr. Leuty, across 
the rim of his exquisite glass, 
vowed eternal friendship with 
Mr. Brookhouse. 

Even Beard more, the cau- 
tious, the wily T grew a trifle 
cordial. He caught the eye 
of Charlotte and put the wine 
to his lips in a meaning 
manner, but Charlotte gave 
the lawyer such a glare that 
he set down the champagne 
untastedp never to touch 
remainder of dinner* 

The banquet was drawing to a close when 
Mrs. Floot entered, looking distinctly frightened, 
and whispered in the landlord's ear. Her message 
delivered, she at once disappeared, and the 
landlord passed the mysterious word to the 

" Good/ 1 said hh worship. 4 * Better late than 
never. Admit them." 

The door opened, and the special waitresses 
from London entered* Charlotte was so amazed 
as she beheld them that all speech, all power of 
movement, left her. They had bright yellow 
hair, bobbed in accordance with the latest and 
smartest fashion. They had very pink cheeks, 
and very red lips, and very black eyelashes, and 
much powder. They had short black skirts, and 
silk stockings, and high -heeled shoes, and little 
lace aprons. They might, in short, have stepped 
straight from the stage of a current revue ! 

Pulling herself together with a violent effort, 
Miss Floot descended upon the simpering 
minxes. " Leave this room 1 " she hissed, 

Quite unabashed, they returned her/ glare with 
contemptuous glances, 

" Oh, Flossie," said one, " hark at that I " 

* ' Oh, Mopsy J " cried the other. " Did you ever ? m 
The company at the tablo roared. Thus 
encouraged, Flossie flew to the piano in the 
corner of the room and rattled away at a lively 
tunc. Mopsy struck an attitude and began ti> 
sing :— 

" Oh, my ! when the war is done ! 
Oh t lor 1 won't wc ham some fun I 

Hi-tidMey-hi-ti ! 

Bang ! Whizz I 'Boom ! 
That's the stuff to give the beastly Hun I " 

it again 

"no high executioner could have stalked 
through " his awful duties with half the 





** Chorus I " she cried, and the whole company 
took it up. The_Mayor beat time and they all 
sang it at the top of their voices —all but Lawyer 
Beardmore, He, evidently, was not in the 
secret. He had been trapped. 

The infection spread. The entire staff of the 
Duck gathered on the landing and joined in 
the chorus. . Mrs, Floot, hysterical with excite- 
ment, could be seen in the midst of the maids 
and the yard-hands beating time, the tears 
running down her cheeks , to ; — ■ 

** Oh t my / when th& war is done I 
Oh, tor t won't we have some fun I 
Hi-tiddtey-hi4i f 
Bang I WMtt ! Boom ! 
Thai's the stuff to give the beastly Hun I " 

'* Gentlemen," cried Tom Moody, " take your 
partners 1 lp 

In a twinkling the long table was- shoved 
aside, and they all fell to dancing. The Mayor 

took Miss Fiossic, replaced at the piano by the 
organist. Tom Moody took Miss Mopsy ; Mr. 
Stygle seized Nellie, the chambermaid ; Mr. 
Neck whirled Jenny, the kitchen maid, off her 
*fcct ; and old David Floot pranced up and down 
the middle of the room with hisj wife. 

Mr. Brookhouse and Mr. Leuty held hands on 
high, and they all passed under in the improvised 
frolic. The floor shook, and might have come 
down, but nobody cared a rap for that* 

" Oh t my ! when the war is done ! 
Oht for t won't we have some fun I 

Hi-iiddley-hi-ti 1 

Bang f Whizz 1 Boom 1 
Thai's the stuff to give the beastly Hun I " 

Great Pulford had never enjoyed itself so 
much, not even at the famous riot. It was 
reported that the people had come out of their 
houses and were dancla^ iix the street 1 " Bang t 




He Jaid his hand 

H Let it go I " yelled Tom Moody ; and let it 
go they did. It had gone far beyond the original 
design of giving Charlotte a lesson. This was a 
sudden revulsion of feeling after four long and 
dreadful years of war. Miss Floot. with arms 
folded and brows tremendously beetled, might 
just as well have tried to dam Niagara with a 

And then, of course, came the climax. Quite 
suddenly the piano stopped playing. A gre*t 
hush fell on the company, and the staff, and the 
people in the street. Miss Fioot, following the 
direction of all eyes, saw a police -set geant and 
two constables standing in the doorway of the 

The sergeant advanced 
on the landlord's 

" As the proprietor 
of this hotel* Mr. 
Floot, I must arrest 
you for conducting 
your house in a dis- 
orderly manner. Will 
you come quietiy ? " 

To Charlotte's aston- 
ishment her brother 
merely smiled and 
shrugged his shoulders, 

11 I am not the land- 
lord/* he said* " 1 
have assigned my hall 
of the property to a 
deserving charity. My 
sister is the owner of 
the other half* and the 
sole manager.' ' 

The sergeant pro- 
duced a pair of hand- 
cuffs, " Will you com c 
quietly, miss ? " 

Miss Floot was so 
stunned that she had 
not a word to say. 
With a smart click the 
handcuffs met around 
her wrists, and she 
was escorted from the 
scene of her brief reign 
of terror to — an ad- 
joining apartment* 

Not to the police- 
station. That would 
have been carrying 
the joke a little too 
far, for the police were 
nut real police, but 
merely versatile mem- 
bers of the 23rd West 
Pu I fords, quartered in 
the neighbou rhood . 
And they hailed as 
Bob and Charlie those 

exquisite young ladies, Miss Flossie and Miss 

Lawyer Beard more hurriedly arranged the 
transfer- of Miss Charlotte's half -share of the 
hotel to Landlord Hoot. In deference to public 
opinion, he also disposed of his own business, 
and followed the lady wliither her two thousand 
pounds led. 

The Floots are happier, jollier, and more 
beloved than ever. When asked about the 
deserving charity to which he once assigned 
his half of the business, the landlord will roar 
with laughter, tap his broad chest with the 
stem of his pipe, and remind the questioner that 
charity begins at home. 


by Google 

Original from 


HENEVER I meet people -who 
ask me to explain the mystery 
of " making people laugh " I 
always feel uncomfortable, and 
begin to edge away. There is 
no more mystery about my 
■ antics on the screen than about 
Harry Lauder's ability to entertain people. We 
both happen to know a few simple facts alxmt 
human nature, which we use in our business. 
And when all is said and done, at the bottom of 
almost all success is a knowledge of human nature, 
whether one be a salesman, hotel -man, editor, of 

The one point of human nature that I play 
upon more than anything else, for example, is 
that it strikes people as funny when they see 
someone else placed in an undignified and 
embarrassing situation. 

it isn't the mere fact of a hat blowing off that 
is funny. It is the ludicrous sight presented 
by a man chasing up the street with his hair 
blowing and his coat-tails flying that makes 
people laugh. When a man walks quietly along 
a street he is not funny* Placed in an embarrass- 
ing and ridiculous situation, however, the human 
being provokes other humans to laughter. 

All comedy of situation is based upon this 





fact. Comedy moving pictures were 
an instant success because most of 
them showed policemen falling down 
coal-holes* slipping into buckets of 
whitewash, falling off patrol wagons, and getting 
into all sorts of trouble* Here were men repre- 
senting the dignity of the law, often very pompous 
themselves, being made ridiculous and undignified. 
The sight of their misfortunes at once struck the 
public funny-bone twice as hard as if private 
citizens were going through like experiences* 

Even funnier than the man who has been 
made ridiculous, however, is the man 'who, 
having had something funny happen to him, 
refuses to admit that anything out of the way 
lias happened and attempts to maintain his 
dignity. Perhaps the best example "is the 
intoxicated man who, though his tongue and 
walk give him away, attempts in a dignified 
manner to convince you that he is quite sober. 

He is much funnier than the man w T ho, wildly 
hilarious, is frankly drunk and doesn't care a 
whoop who knows it. Intoxicated characters 
on the stage are almost always "slightly tipsy/' 
with an attempt at dignity ; because theatrical 
managers have learned that this attempt at 
dignity is funny. 

For that reason > all my pictures are built 
around the idea of getting me into trouble 1 , and 
so giving me the chance to be desperately serious 
in my attempt to appear as a normal little 
gentleman. That is why, no matter how 
desperate the predicament is, I am always very 
much in earnest about clutching my cane, 
straightening my Derby hat, and fixing my tie, 
even though T have yjiat lauded on my head. 

1 ^iBft'Eiratf 'SHw^jfli** J not oal y 



try target myself into embarrassing situations, 
but I also incriminate the other characters in 
the ptbture. When I do this I always aim for 
economy of means. By that I mean that when 
one incident can get two big, separate laughs, it 
is much better than two individual incidents. 
In " The Adventurer " ^accomplished this by 
first placing myself on a balcony, eating ice- 
cream with a girl. On the floor directly under- 
neath the balcony I put a stout, dignified, well- 
dressed woman at a table. Then, while eating 
the ice-cream, I let a piece drop off my spoon, 
slip through my baggy trousers, and drop from 
the balcony on to this woman's neck. 

The first laugh came at my embarrassment 
over my own predicament. The second, and 
the much greater one, came when the ice-cream 
landed on the woman's neck and she shrieked 
and started to dance around. Only one incident 
had been used, but it had got two people into 
trouble, and had also got two big laughs. 

Simple as this trick seems, there were two real 
points of human nature involved in it. One was 
the delight the average person takes in seeing 
wealth and luxury in trouble. The other was 
the tendency of the human being to experience 
within himself the emotions of the people he 
sees on the stage or screen. 

One of the things most quickly learned in 
theatrical work is that people as a whole get 
satisfaction from seeing the rich get the worst of 
things. The reason for this, of course, lies in 
the fact that nine-tenths of the people in the 
world are poor, and secretly resent the wealth 
of the other tenth. 

If I had dropped the ice-cream, for example 
on a charwoman's neck, instead of getting 
laughs, sympathy would have been aroused for 
the woman. Also, because a charwoman has 
no dignity to lose, that point would not have 
been funny. Dropping ice-cream down a rich 
woman's neck, however, is, in the minds of the 
audience, just giving the rich what they deserve. 

By saying that human beings experience the 
same emotions as the people in the incidents 
they witness, I mean that — taking the ice-cream 
as an example — when the rich woman shivered 
the audience shivered with her. A thing that 
puts a person in an embarrassing predicament 
must always be perfectly familiar to an audience, 
or else the people will miss the point entirely. 
Knowing that ice-cream is cold, the audience 
shivers. If something was used that the audience 
did not recognize at once, it would not be able 
to appreciate the point as well. On this same 
fact was based the throwing of custard pies in 
the early pictures. Everyone knew that custard 
pie is squashy, and so was able to appreciate 
how the actor felt when one landed on him. 

Many persons have asked me where I got 
the idea for the type of the character I play. 
Well, all I can say is that it is a composite 
pictufe of many Englishmen I had seen in 
London during the years of my life in that city. 

When the Keystone Film Company, with 
which I made my first pictures, asked me to 
leave Karno's " Night in an English Music- 
Hall," a pantomime in which I was playing, 

I was undecided what to do about the offer, 
principally because I did not know what kind 
of a comedy character I could play. Then, 
after a time, I thought of all the little Englishmen 
I had seen with small black moustaches, tight- 
fitting clothes, and bamboo canes, and I decided 
to model my make-up after these men. 

Thinking of the cane was perhaps the best 
piece of luck I ever had. One reason is that 
the cane places me, in the minds of the audience, 
more quickly than anything else could. The 
other is that I have developed the cane until it 
has almost a comedy sense of its own. Often 
I find it curling itself around someone's leg, or 
rapping someone on the shoulder and getting a 
laugh from the audience almost without my 
knowing that I was directing its action. 

I don't think I quite realized, when I first 
used the cane, how, in the minds of literally 
millions of people, a cane labels a man as some- 
what of a " dude." A young fellow who appears 
with a cane is very likely to be asked if he 
isn't afraid of catching cold without it. So 
when I shuffle on to the scene with my little 
stick and my serious expression, I at once 
convey the impression of attempted dignity, 
which is exactly the thing I want to do. 

When I made my first picture with the Key- 
stone Company I was twenty-two years old. 
(I am now twenty-nine.) You may wonder 
what I knew about human nature at that age. 
Well, you must remember that I had been 
Bljjfing before the public ever since I was 
iOTrteen years old. It seems a little queer that 
my first important stage engagement should 
have been with William Gillette, the American 
actor, in " Sherlock Holmes," an American play. 
Nevertheless, it was, and for fourteen months 
I played the part of Billy, the office-boy, in the 
London production of " Sherlock Holmes." 

At the end of that engagement I went into 
vaudeville. There, I did a song-and-dance act 
for a few years, giving it up, however, to join 
one of Karno's pantomime companies. 

If it had not been for my mother, however, I 
doubt if I could have m&de a success of panto- 
mime. She was one of the greatest pantomime 
artistes I have ever seen. She would sit for hours 
at a window, looking down at the people on the 
street, and illustrating with her hands, eyes, 
and facial expression just what was going on 
below. All the time she would deliver a running 
fire of comment. And it was through watching 
and listening to her that I learned not only how 
to express my emotions with my hands and face, 
but also how to observe and to study people. 

She was almost uncanny in her observations. 
For instance, she would see Bill Smith coming 
down the street in the morning, and I would 
hear her say : — 

" There comes Bill Smith. He's dragging his 
feet and his shoes are not polished. • He looks 
mad, and I'll wager he's had a fight with his 
wife, and come off without his breakfast. Sure 
enough ! there he goes into the shop for a bun 
and coffee." 

And invariably, during the day. I would heai 
that Bill Smith had had a fight with his wife. 



Walker* Mutual 

This habit of studying people was really 

the most valuable tiling my mother could 

have taught me, because it has been only in 

way that I have learned what appeals 

to human beings as funny. 

That is why, when I am watching one oi 
my pictures presented to an audience, I always 
keep one eye on the picture and the other eye, 
and both cars, on the: audience. I notice what 
people laugh at, and what they don't 
laugh at If, for example, several 
audiences do not laugh at a stunt I 
meant to be funny, I at once begin 
to tear that trick to pieces and try to 
discover what was wrong in the idea ur 
in the execution of it, or in the pho- 
tography of the scene. 

Very often I hear a slight ripple at 
something I had not 
c ted to be funny, 
•rice 1 prick up my 
ears and ask my sell 
why that particular 
thing got a laugh. 

In a way, my „ 
going to see a movie 
is really the same as 
a merchant observe 
ingwhat people a ro 
wearing or buying 

or doing. Anyone who caters for the public 
has got to keep his knowledge of " wltat 
people like J> fresh, and up to date, 

In the same way that I watch people 
inside a theatre to see when they laugh, 
I watch them everywhere to get material 
which they can laugh at. 

I was passing a fire-station one day, for 
example, and heard a fire- 
alarm ring in. 1 watched the 
men sliding down the pole, 
climbing onto the engine, and 
rushing otf to the fire. At 
once a train of comic pos- 
sibilities occurred to me. I 
saw myself sleeping in bed, 
oblivious to the clanging of 
the fire -bell. This point 
would have a universal ap* 
peal, because everyone likes 
to sleep, I saw myself sliding 
down the pole, playing tricks 
with the ii re-horses, rescuing 
the heroine, 
falling off the 
fire-engine as 
it t urned a 
corner, and 
many other 
points along 
the same 
tinea. I stored 
these points 
away in my 
mind, and 
some time 
* later, when I 
made "The 
Fire man, 1 ' I 
used every 
one of them. 
Yet if I had 
not watched 
the fir te- 
station that 
day the pos- 
sibilities in 
the character 
of a fireman 
might never 
have o o* 
curred tome, 





I was seated in a restaurant once when I 
suddenly noticed that a man a few yards away 
kept bowing and smiling, apparently at me. 
Thinking he wished to be friendly, I bowed and 
smiled back at him. As I did this, however, 
he suddenly scowled at me. I thought I had 
been mistaken in his intentions. The next 
minute, however, he smiled again. I bowed ; 
but once more he scowled. I could not imagine 
why he was smiling and scowling until, looking 
over my shoulder, I saw he had been flirting 
with a pretty girl. My mistake made me laugh, 
and yet it was a natural one on my part. So 
when the opportunity came a few months ago 
to utilize such a scene in " A Dog's Life," I made 
use of the incident. 

Another point about the human being that 
I use a great deal is the liking of the average 
person for contrast and surprise in his entertain- 
ment. It is a matter of simple knowledge, of 
course,, that the human likes to see the struggle 
between the good and the bad, the rich and the 
poor, the successful and the unsuccessful. He 
likes to cry and he likes to laugh, all within the 
space of a very few moments. To the average 
person contrast spells interest, and because it does 
I am constantly making use of it in my pictures. 

If I am being chased by a policeman I always 
make the policeman seem heavy and clumsy, 
while, by crawling through bis legs, I appear 
light and acrobatic. If I am being treated 
harshly, it is always a big man who is doing it ; 
so that, by the contrast between big and little, I 
get the sympathy of the audience, and always I 
try to contrast my seriousness of manner with 
the ridiculousness of the incident. 

It is my luok, of course, that I am short, and 
so am able to make these contrasts without 
much difficulty. Everyone knows that the little 
fellow in trouble always gets the sympathy of 
the mob. Knowing that it is part of human 
nature to sympathize with the " under dog," 
I always accentuate my helplessness by drawing ' 
my shoulders in, drooping my lip pathetically, 
and looking frightened. It is all part of the 
art of pantomime, of course. But if I were 
three inches taller it would be much more 
difficult to get the sympathy of the audience. 
I should then look big enough to take care of 
myself. As it is, the audience, even while 
laughing at me, is inclined to sympathize with 
me. As someone once said, it feels like 
" mothering me." 

However, one has got to be careful to make 
the contrast clear enough. At the close of 
" A Dog's Life," for example, I am supposed to 
be a farmer. Accordingly, I thought it might 
be funny for me to stand in a field, take one 
seed at a time from my vest-pocket, and plant 
it by digging a hole with my finger. So I told 
one of my assistants to pick out a farm where* 
this scene could be taken. 

Well, he picked out a nice farm ; but I did 
not use it, for the simple reason that it was 
too small t It did not afford sufficient contrast 
for my absurd way of planting the see<i. It 
might be slightly funny on a small farm, but 
done on a large one of about six hundred acres. 

the scene gets a big laugh, simply because of 
the contrast between my method of planting 
and the size of the farm. 

On almost a par with contrast I would put 

Figuring out what the audience expects, and 
then doing something different, is great fun to 
me. Jn one of my pictures, " The Immigrant," 
the opening scene showed me leaning far over 
the side of a ship. Only my back could be 
seen, and from the convulsive shudders of my 
shoulders it looked as though I was sea-sick. 
If I had been, it would have been a terrible 
mistake to show it in the picture. What I was 
doing was deliberately misleading the audience. 
Because, when I straightened up, I pulled a 
fish on the end of a line into view, and the 
audience saw that, instead of being sea-sick, I 
had been leaning over the side, to catch the 
fish. It came as a total surprise, and got a roar 
of laughter. 

There is such a thing, however, as being too 
funny. There are some J>lays and pictures at 
which the audience laughs so much and so 
heartily that it becomes exhausted and tired. 
To make an audience roar is the ambition of 
many actors, but I prefer to spread the laughs 
out. It is much better when there is a continual 
ripple of amusement, with one or two big 
*' stomach laughs," than when an audience 
" explodes " every minute or two. 

People often ask me if all my ideas work out, 
and if it is easy to make a funny picture. I some- 
times wish they could follow the whole prccess 
of getting the idea, working out the characters, 
taking the film, editing and arranging it. 

I am often appalled at the amount of film I 
have to make in getting a single picture. I have 
taken as much as sixty thousand feet in order 
to get the two thousand feet seen by the public. 
It would take about twenty hours to run off 
sixty thousand feet on the screen I Yet that 
amount must be taken i,o present forty minutes 
of picture. 

Sometimes, when I find that, though I have 
worked hard over an idea, it has not yet taken 
final shape in my head, and is therefore not 
ready to be filmed, I at once drop it and try 
something else. I do not believe in wasting 
too much time on something that will not work 
out. I do believe in concentrating all your 
' energies upon the thing you are doing. But if 
you can't put it /ight, after having done your 
best, try something else for a time, and then come 
back to your original scheme if you still have faith 
in it. That is the way I have always worked. 

In my work I don't trust anyone's sense of 
humour but my own. There have been times 
when the people around the studio have screamed 
at certain scenes while the picture was in the 
making, and yet I .have discarded those scenes 
because they did not strike me as being funny 
enough. It isn't because I think I am so much 
smarter than those around me. It is simply 
because I am the one who gets all the blame or 
credit for the picture. I can't insert a title in 
a picture, for mstance, and say : — 

" *9MM>m£ not ****** 



I didn't think this was funny myself, hut the 
fellows around me told me it was, and so 
1 let it go/' 

Here is another point that makes it 
difficult for me to trust the judgment 
of those around me. My camera- 
man and other assistants are so 
used to me that tht*y don't laugh 
v^ry much at what I do in re- 
hearsal, if I make a mistake, 
however, then they laugh. 
And I, not realizing, per- 
haps, that I have made a 
mistake, am likely to think 
the scene ip funny. I didn't 
get on to this point until I 
asked some of them one day 


CHARLIE CHAPLIN, HMtflNfi & Undented 

why they had laughed at a bit of business that I business. 

did not think was amusing. When they told me without a 

they had laughed because I had done something work 

wrong, I saw how they might mislead me- So foundati 

Wotted] IMMIGRANT," \ Mutual 

now I am glad they don't always 
laugh at my stuff. 

One of the things I have to be 
most careful about is not to overdo 
a thing, or to stress too much any 
particular point. I could kill laughs 
more quickly by overdoing some- 
thing than by any other method. 
If I made too much of my peculiar 
walk, if I were too rough in turn- 
ing people upside down, if I went to 
excess in anything at all, it would be 
bad fur the picture. 

One of the reasons why I hated the 
early comedies in winch I played was 
because there couldrit be much " re- 
straint*' in hurling custard pies! One 
or two custard pies are funny, perhaps ; 
but when nothing but custard pies is 
nsod to get laughs the picture becomes 
monotonous. Perhaps I do not 
always succeed by my methods, but 
I would a thousand times rather 
get a laugh through something 
clever and original than through 

There is no mystery connected with 
" making people laugh." All I have 
ever done is to keep my eyes open 
and my brain alert for any facts or 
incidents that I could use in my 
I have studied human nature, because 
knovvled^e of it 1 could not do my 





RS + HUGGINS' manifestation 
of antipathy to her prospective 
son-in-law was a thing to be 
seen to be believed. She bridled 
at the sight of him. She lashed 
him with her tongue on every 
conceivable occasion. She 

snubbed, derided, buffeted him. 
She could find no virtue in his appearance, 
manners t or character. She hated him with 
consuming wrath, and did not hesitate to flaunt 
her animadversion in his 1 face, or in the face of 
her friends or of her daughter Maggie, Mrs, 
Huggins kept a boarding-house in Camden 
Town, and Maggie was her only child, her 
ewe Iamb ± the light of her existence, whose 
simple* unsophisticated character had been 
suddenly- — within' two months — entirely de* 
moralized by the advent of this meteoric 
youth* Quentin Livermore had appeared from 
the blue, w r hen she was very distracted 
about her unlet rooms, and had applied for 
Mrs. Hugging' first floor, for which he offered 
a good price. He was a weak-faced t flashy, 
old-young man, anything between thirty and 
forty. He dressed gorgeously, lived sump- 
tuously, and was employed in some Government 
department* He was in the house less than 
twenty-four hours when he commenced to make 
love to Maggie, and it was the change in Maggie 
which particularly annoyed Mrs* Huggins. 
Maggie was a stenographer in a local stores, 
and earning good money— a simple, natural 
girl ; but when Mr. Livermore appeared on the 
seme she began to speak with an affected lisp, 
to w F ear fallals and gewgaws, and to do her 
hair in strange bangs and buns. In a few days 
they were going out for strolls together after 

Copyright, 1919, 

supper. In a fortnight he was taking her to 
theatres and cinemas. In six weeks they were 
to all intents and purposes engaged, At least. 
they said they were engaged. Mr*, Huggins 
said they were not. In fact, she told her friend, 
Mrs. O'Neil, in the private bar of the Staff 
of Life, that she would "see that slobberin* 
shark cremated " before he should go off with 
her Mag. 

But on the morning when this story com- 
mences, Mrs. Huggins was in a very perturbed 
state. It was a pleasant June morning, and 
she had finished her housework. She sat down 
to enjoy a well -merited glass of stout, and to 
review the situation. Maggie had gone away 
for a few days' holiday, to stay with some 
cousins in Essex, and the evening before she had 
left there had been a terrible rumpus. Maggie 
had come home with her hair bobbed — looking 
like some wretched office-boy I After Mrs. 
Huggins had vented her opinion upon this 
contemptible metamorphosis and had cried 
a little, she went out, and, returning late in the 
evening, found- her Maggie lolling on a couch 
in Mr. Livermore p s room, smoking cigarettes 
and drinking port wine I It was a climax 
in every sense, and to add to her misfortunes 
the Bean family, who occupied the third and 
part of the fourth f!oor t suddenly left to go 
and live at Hendon, near the aeroplane works 
where they were nearly all employed. 

Mrs. Huggins had now no lodgers except 
the iasufferable Mr. Livermore. It would 
be impossible to keep up her refined establish- 
ment on the twenty -five shillings a week that 
Livermore paid her without breaking into her 
hardj^rned sayings^ But this fact did not 
distura'iMRbl™^ns^ as the difficulty 

by Stacy Aumonier, . 



of furthering a more ambitious project* which 
was nothing less than to get rid of Mr. Livermore 
while Maggie was away. 

Mrs. Huggins blew the froth ofi the stout, 
took a long draught and then wiped her mouth 
on her apron, and continued to ponder upon the 
problem- No light came to her, and she was 
about to repeat the operation when she was 
disturbed by the clatter of a four-wheeled cab 
driving up at the front door. She looked up 
through the kitchen window and beheld a 
strange sight. The cab was laden with a most 
peculiar collection of trunks and boxes, and 
standing by the front doorstep was a fat man 
holding a cage with a canary in one hand and 
a violin-case in the other, 

M Ah I a new lodger at last I JJ thought Mrs, 
Huggins, and she slipped off her apron and 
hurried upstairs. When she opened the front 
door, she no- 
ticed that the 
fat man had 
thick specta- 
cles, a Horn- 
burg hat much 
too small for 
his head, and 
a tuft of yel- 
low beard be- 
tween two of 
his innumer- 
able chins. He 
put down the 
canary and re- 
moved his hat. 

"Have I 
the honour to 
speak to the 
honoured Mrs* 
Huggins ?"he 

" Mrs. Hug- 
gins is my 
name/' an- 
swered that 

" Ah I So 1 
May I a word 
with you ? n 
He walked 
into the hall 
and once more 
set duwn the 
canary and 
the violin. He 
then produced 
a bulky sheaf 
of correspond- 

pi I have been regom mended, May I have 
the pleasure of your hospitality for some time ? " 

" I have some rooms to Jet/ 1 replied Mrs* 
Huggins, evasively. 

He bowed and blew his nose. 

M I must eggsplain in. ze first place, goot 
lady. I am a Sherman." 

There was a perceptible pause whilst these 

vql ivii-a 


two eyed each other, then Mrs. Huggins said, 
explosively : — 

" Oh t I can't take no dirty 'Uns in my 
r ousc," 
> It might perhaps be mentioned at this point 
that the speech of Mrs, Huggins was always 
characterized by directness and force* The 
Hun bowed once more, and replied : — 

" The matter is already at your dis position, 
good lady. I state my case. If you gan 
consider it, I gan assure you that ail my papers 
are in order, The London poliss officers know 
me. I report to zem* I have my passports, 
my permits. Everything in order. I pay vuu 

Mrs + Huggi*is bunked at tbe German and 
blinked at the cab, The cab looked somewhat 
imposing with its large trunks, and the German's 
face -was eminently homely and kind. Her 

eye wandered 
from it to the 
canary, and 
then along the 
wall to the 
hall-s t and. 
and came to 
a stop at — 
Li vermore's 
felt hat ! She 

"What sort 
of rooms do 
you want ? " 
she said, 

At this com- 
promise^ of 
tone the Hun 
assumed the 
of his race- 
He put liis 
things down 
on the hall- 
chairs and be- 
came voluble 
and convinc- 
ing. He was 
a watch and 
clock - maker. 
His business 
in Hackney 
had been de- 
stroyed by a 
fire. He had 
been offered 
an excellent 
position at a 
colleague's in 
C a m d e n 
Town, the 
said colleague being sick and in urgent 
need of help. He was simple in his require* 
ments : a bed, a breakfast, occasionally a 
supper- His name was Schmidt, Karl Schmidt. 
He was willing to pay three pounds a week 
for the rooms, payment in advance. He had 
endless " recommendations/* Mrs, Huggins 
found herself following, him up.antf down stairs, 

herself following him up and 

TjnIversity of michISMT 



helping Mm in with tnmka, and listening abstrac- 
tedly. In a vague way she took to the Hun, 
and her mind was active with a scheme to use 
Mm for her own ends. All the trunks were 
installed in the third -floor rooms, and she 
observed him take out an old string purse and 
say to the cabman : — 

44 Now have we all the paggages installed ? So I " 

He paid the cabman* and came into the nail 

and shut the door. He walked ponderously 

upstairs, humming to himself* She heard him 

busy with bunches of keys, opening and shutting 



trunks and putting things away in drawers. 
The whole thing had happened so suddenly 
that Mrs. Huggins still could not decide her 
course of action, She went downstairs and 
put some potatoes on to boil. After a time she 
heard the Hun coming heavily down to the hall 
again . She went up to meet him. He waved 
three one-pound Treasury notes in the air and 
placed them on the hall- table. 

" Mrs. Huggins," he said, " please to be goot 
enough to allow me to present you with zese. 
I shall be very gomfortable here. It is all 
satisfactory. I go now to my colleague in 
pizneas. Then I go to eggsplain to the poliss. 
It is all in order. Yes, I $hall not be returnable 
since zis evening, perhaps eight o'glock, perhaps 
nine o'glock. In any vay I gom back before 
ten o'glock, Oh, yes, before ten o'giock 1 " 
And he laughed boisterously, bowed, and went 
out. Mrs* Huggins stared at the door, then 

went to the window and watched him cross the 

" Well I'm bio wed ! " she muttered to herself, 
and fingered the three crisp Treasury notes in 
her hand. She went up to his room and touched 
all his trunks and small effects* Most ol his 
tilings were locked up* She said " Cheep I 
cheep 1 " to the canary three times* and then 
went downstairs and had her dinner. 

And that afternoon Mrs. Huggins became "very 
busy. In apron, and with bare arms and a 
broom, she worked as she had not worked for 

months. The details 
may he spared, but the 
principal effect must be 
observed, that by six- 
thirty that evening all 
Heir Fritz's luggage 
and effects had been 
installed in the first- 
floor room, and aJ! Mr. 
Quentin Livermore's 
property aad been piled 
up in a heap in the 
hall 1 

We will also take the 
liberty of passing ov t -r 
the details of the inter- 
view which took place 
between Mrs. Huggins 
and Mr + Livermore when 
he came in at seven 
o'clock that evening on 
Ms way to change hts 
clothes and go down 
West to dine- It need 
only be said that the 
accumulated antipathy 
of their two months' 
intercourse reached a 
climax. There may have 
been faults on both 
sides, but Mrs, Huggins 
was In one of her most 
masterful moods, and she 
was, moreover, armed 
with a broom, Mr* 
Livermore had only a 
cane, and his superciliousness. He was, indeed, 
rather frightened, and his sneering com- 
ments on her personal appearance had little 
sting. His ultimate decision to leave at once 
and go over to Mrs- Hayward's, so that 
he would still be where Maggie could find 
Mm, and where, in any case, it was tolerably 
clean and the landlady knew how to cook, was 
the only shaft which told at all, for Mrs- Hay ward 
and Mrs. Huggins were notorious rivals. In 
the end a cab was secured, and by eight o'clock 
the trium pliant Mrs. Huggins had slammed the 
door on her liated lodger, with a final threat 
that " if she saw 'im going about with 'er gal 
she'd bang 'im over the chops with a broom " t 

So excited and exhilarated was Mrs, Huggins 
by her victory that when he had gone she felt 
it incumbent upon her to dash down to the 
Staff of Life for ten minutes to get a glass of 
bocr and to unburden herself to Mfs* O'Eeil. 




Not finding, her friend there, she had two glasses 
of beer and hurried back. On arriving at the 
corner of her street she had another surprise. 
A taxi was standing outside her door, and a 
short gentleman with a dark moustache and 
pointed beard was banging on her door and 
looking up at the' windows. 

,f Gawdstruth I What is it now ? " muttered 
Mrs. Huggins, hurrying up. 

On approaching the stranger he turned and 
looked at her. 
-" Well, what is it ? " she asked. 

The gentleman smiled very charmingly and 
made an elaborate bow. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed. " So at last I have 
the pjeasure of addressing the charming Madame 
Hugginl Madame, my compliments. May I 
address you on a professional mattare ? " 

He slipped a visiting-card into her hand on 
which was printed; " M. Jules de la Roche. 
29B, Rue Dormi, Paris." 

Mrs. Huggins stared at the card and opened 
her front door. 

"Oh, my Gawdl" was ail that occurred to 
her to remark. The Frenchman — for so he 
apparently was — bowed again, and followed her 
into the hall. -* 

" You must pardon my precipitate manners," 
he said. " I am .very pressed. I am in London 
on business connected with the French Red Cross. 
I have a peculiar dislike to hotels, and a lady 
I met in the train was'kind enough to refer me 
to your charming pension. I shall owe you a 
thousand thanks if you will be kind enough to 
allow me to enjoy your hospitality if only for a 
few days, or perhaps weeks. Whatever you can 

do -" He waved his arms and looked 

quicjdy, almost beseechingly, round the little hall. 

Mrs. Huggins wiped her mouth on her apron 
and stared at the Frenchman. 

" Well, this is a rum go I " she remarked, at 
last. " I've got a German on the first floor. 
A nice, quiet feller. And now you're a Frenchy I 
Now, look here ; if I take you in I'm not goin' 
to 'ave any fightin' goin' on. D'you understand 

The Frenchman gave her one of his quick 
glances, and laughed. 

" My dear madame," he exclaimed, " what 
ees eet to me ? Lam of entirely a gentle dis- 
position, and if your friend is of gentle disposition, 
vy should we quarrel ? " 

" 'E's no Jrund of mine," interjected Mrs. 
Huggins. " 'E's a 'Un, but 'e's a lodger. I 
don't make friends of my lodgers, but I treats 
'em fair. If I do the fair and square thing by 
them, I expect 'em to do the fair and square by 
me ; but I won't 'ave the place turned into a 
bear-garden by a lot of foreigners." 

M. de la Roche threw back his head and 

" An admirable sentiment, ctere madame. Then 
it is settled. I take my effects immediately 
to Vich floor did you mention ? " 

" I didn't mention no floor," replied Mrs. 
Huggins, " but if you like to leave it at that, I 
dessay I can fix you up on the third, and the 
terms will be three pounds a week." 

The face of Mrs. Huggins was perfectly straight 
when she demanded this extortionate sum ; 
neither did it show any evidence of surprise 
when the Frenchman quite avidly agreed, and 
immediately paid her -three pounds down in 
advance. He seemed a gay and companionable 
gentleman. He had only one valise, with which 
he ran upstairs. He paid the cabman a sum 
which seemed to leave that gentleman so speech- 
less he could not even express his thanks. He 
chatted to Mrs. Huggins merrily about the 
weather, the war, the food problems, the diffi- 
culties of running a lodging-house. He was 
intensely sympathetic about various minor ail- 
ments of which Mrs. Huggins was a victim. He 
listened attentively to the history of various 
former lodgers, but beyond eliciting the fact 
that the German occupied the first floor, he 
showed no particular interest in his fellow-lodger. 
He explained that he had considerable correspon- 
dence to attend to that evening, so he did not 
propose to go out, but if Mrs. Huggins could 
scramble him a couple of eggs on toast and 
make him a cup of tea, he would be eternally 

Mrs. Huggins was a good cook. It was a 
matter she took a keen personal delight in. 
She would neglect her housework in order to 
produce some savoury trifle for a pet lodger. 
On this occasion she surprised M. de la Roche 
by serving him with a large ham omelette and 
an apple tart. 

"After yer long journey you'll want a bite 
ofsomethin'," she explained. 

Any apprehensions she entertained that her 
house was to be turned into a bear-garden by 
a lot of quarrelsome foreigners were early 
' dissipated. At half-past nine that evening 
Herr Schmidt came in and went up to his room. 
Ten minutes later M. Jules de la Roche, coming 
downstairs, beheld the canary in its cage on 
a chair outside Herr Fritz's door. 

" Ah, le petit bossu ! " he remarked. 

The door was ajar, and Herr Fritz stepped out. 

" Bon soir, monsieur, 1 * he said, in his deep- 
chested voice. " Are you interested in canaries?" 

The Frenchman smiled in a friendly manner. 

" My sympathies always go out to the caged, 
monsieur," he replied. " But what a pretty 
fellow 1 Am I right in suggesting that he is 
of the Belgian species ? " 

" No, sir," said the German. " Although 
they vas somet'ing similar, zis is ze Scottish," 

" Pardon," replied the Frenchman. " I ought 
to have known. I have lived at Terceira, in 
the Azores, where one hears canaries singing 
in the open all day. Eet ees entrancing." 

" Gom inzide," sighed Herr Schmidt, "and 
let us talk. I am lonely." 

Mrs. Huggins overheard this conversation from 
the hall beneath, and she smiled contentedly. 
It was a triumph. A bolt from the blue. She 
had ousted the wretched Livermore, and like 
manna from heaven these two gentle, simple 
foreigners, who were willing to pay through the 
neck, had dropped right into her lap. Her 
conscience mildly smote her that she had de- 
manded so much from Herr Schmidt, but a 




rapid mental calculation had decided that he 
must pay at least double, as a penalty for being 
a Hun, but at the same time it wouldn't be fair 
to him to take another lodger for less. She 
had been in any case prepared to bargain, 
and to considerably reduce her terms, and had 
been quite nonplussed at not being called upon 
to do so. So far so good, but the difficulty 
of detaching the wretched Livermore from her 
Maggie still remained to be accomplished, for 
Maggie was to return the day after to-morrow, 
and Livermore would be sure to be always 
hanging about the street. 

In the meantime, the conversation between 
the two foreigners upstairs never nagged. They 
became extremely friendly. The violin-case 
laid the foundation for an intimate chat on 
technique, personality, Bach, nationality. From 
these easily devolved discussions on politics, 
religion, and hence, inevitably, " this regret- 
table war." Each man was patently sensitive 
of the other's feelings. They talked of every- 
thing in the abstract, and avoided as far as 
possible the personal equation. They found 
each other extremely interesting, but there 
arrived a point when each was conscious that 
the other was fencing. Herr Schmidt produced 
a bottle of whisky and a siphon of soda, but 
he could not persuade M. de la Roche to partake 
of more than one glass. It was nearly twelve 
o'clock when the Frenchman suddenly said : — 

" Well, my dear Herr Schmidt, I have had a 
most entrancing evening. I suggest that you 
dine vif me to-morrow evening. I have made 
de happy discovery dat our good Mrs. Huggins 
is a most excellent chef. Why should ve two 
lonely bachelors not share our meal ? " 

" I gannot gonziddef anyt'ing more delight- 
ful," replied Herr Schmidt. " Only I insist 
that you dine vif me in my room. I glaim pre- 
eminence as ze first-floor lodger." He laughed 
boisterously, and after further mildly disputing 
the matter it was arranged accordingly. 

The dinner which. Herr Schmidt prevailed 
upon Mrs. Huggins to supply the following 
evening in honour of his friend M. de la 
Roche was of such a nature that not only had 
the like never been served in Mrs. Huggins' 
household, * but probably never before in the 
whole environment of Camden Town. In the 
first place there were oysters and grape-fruit, 
soup, a baked bream, a rpast fowl and several 
vegetables, a lemon-curd tart, Welsh rarebit, 
and grapes, the whole mellowed with the exhi- 
larating complement of Italian vermouth, 
sparkling Moselle, and a very old brandy, to 
say nothing of coffee, cigars, and the dazzling 
conversation of the two gentlemen. 

The preparation of these alluring delicacies 
occupied Mrs. Huggins nearly the whole of the 
day, a day which was only marred by a regret- 
table scuffle in the early morning. It happened 
at about half-past eight. Mrs. Huggins was 
at work in the kitchen when she heard a com- 
motion going on up in the hall. Hurrying 
upstairs, she found M. de la Roche arguing 
with Quentin livermore. The Frenchman 
turned to her. 

" Who is dis man, madame ? I know him not. 
He comes into the house unbidden ) " 

And Livermore cut in : — 

" I've come to collect my letters. You're 
not going to keep my letters from me." 

Mrs. Huggins seized her broom and cried 
out : — 

" You get out ! You dirty thief and black- 
mailer ! " 

She experienced no difficulty in routing 
Mr. Livermore and sending him flying up the 
street, and after his departure she told the whole 
story to M. de la Roche, who kept on repeating : — 

" Norn dt Dieu ! How shocking I Quel 
perfide ! What a villain ! " He was almost in 

The rest of the day passed quietly. Both 
the gentlemen went out soon after breakfast. 
Herr Schmidt did not reUurn till seven-thirty 
in the evening, in time for the dinner. M. de 
la Roche came in at five o'clock, and per- 
suaded Mrs. Huggins to go to the nearest haber- 
dasher's and obtain two clean shirts for him, 
as, owing to his imperfect knowledge of the 
English tongue, he was unable to obtain the 
sort he required. She returned iit half an hour, 
and M. de la Roche thanked her profusely. 
At eight o'clock precisely he presented himself 
in Herr Schmidt's room, wearing an ill-fitting 
evening dress peculiar to Frenchmen. Herr 
Schmidt was also in evening dress of an ill- 
fitting kind peculiar to Germans. They bov/ed 
and shook hands cordially. 

" I am indeed fortunate," remarked Herr 
Schmidt, " in a city so desolate as London, 
and in a quarter so traurig as zis, to find zo 
sympat'etic and charming a fellow-lodger." 

" Tout au contraire" replied the Frenchman. 
" The good fortune is exclusively to me. Ah ! 
this London ! Was there ever a city so abaissi, 
so triste ?" 

" Never ! never ! " retorted Herr Schmidt. 
" Now. let me offer you a glass of goot vermouth, 
and then ve vill these excellent oysters circum- 
scribe while ze goot Frau Huggins prepares ze 

The two men sat down and toasted each other 

" Doubtless you haf gonsiderably travelled, 
my fnent ? " remarked Herr Schmidt, as he 
disposed of his second dozen oysters. 

" I would not venture to address myself as a 
traveller," replied De la Roche. " True, I have 
lived in the Azores, and I am at home in Egypt, 
Morocco, Spain, France, and Italy. But a 
traveller, parbleu ! It means something more 
than that. And you, Herr Schmidt, have you 
adventured far ? " 

" No ; ze Fatherland — pardon me speaking of 
ze Fatherland in zese delicate times — ze Father- 
land has occupied- me for most a long vile ; and 
zen zis dear Engeland, vich I love almost as 
much as, it occupies me too already. For ze 
rest, a little Dutchman, a little Svede, a little 
of the sea, I am a citizen of ze vide, vide vorld, 
isn't it ? " 

" Ees eet not curious ? " remarked M. 
de la Roche, as Mrs. Huggins brought in the 




soup. " Eet appears mostly that you visit 
countries I have-not visit, and I visit countries 
you not visit. Strange ! " 

" So it happens most nearly alvays. Now, I 
vcmld visa much to go to America. And you ? " 

" Ah I America I Yes, most i ate res ting." 

*" You do not go to America ? " 

The German looked at the Frenchman with 
his mild eyes, and M. de la Roche shook 
his head. 

" No, no, I don't like/' he rejoined. " It 
does not call to me. Interesting, Yes* iris 
, 'JSressant ; but to me too mat&riel. Life to 
me must be romance. Romance first, romance 
second, romance all dc time/ 1 

* - Ei en in Camden Town ? ** queried Herr 
Schmidt, slicing the bream down the centre. 
Then he laughed. " Well after all f vy not ? 
It is to be found, your romance, even in 
material zings* I lofe material zings M and I 
find zem romantic. It is a figure of ze mind. 
Allow me to offer you zome of zis sparkling 
vine, if it does not to trink a German vine you 

"I am a Cafolic," replied M, de Ja Roche, 
(i bot' in my religion and in appreciation of goot 
t'ings. To your goot healt', Herr Schmidt, 
and happy days ven peace shall come." 

** Happy days ? >p solemnly replied the German. 
" May the vorld vonce more to reason gom 1 " 

Ttie wine flowed freely. The fcwl was done 
to a nicety, The conversation never flagged, 
Mrs- Huggins enjoyed the dinner almost as 
much as her two lodgers. They were the softest 

thing she had ever encountered in her professional 
career. Visions of a bounteous time, in spite of 
the. war, floated before her mind's eye. She 
even decided that she would treat them fairly 
and squarely. She would not take advantage 
of their innocence ; but there would be a steady 
accumulation of " things left over," which were 
her natural perquisites. She was indeed sur- 
veying the remnants of the very solid fowl as 
it reclined on a dish in the hall, and %vas mentally 
performing the skilful operation of H trimming 
it up ,J without altering the general effect of 
the mass, when she heard Herr Schmidt's door 
open and shut, and he came down the stairs 
quietly. In the hall he produced a large time- 
piece from his waistcoat-pocket, and, resting one 
hand comma ndingly on her shoulder, he said :— 

" Mrs. Huggins, in seven minutes precisely 
two shentlemens vill gall to visit me. Ask no 
questions* Show them straight up to my room, 
open ze door, and say, * Mr. Skinner and Mr, 
Trout.' Then close ze door and retire till 1 
giril you vtsixce more again." 

He gave her no opportunity to reply to tbese 
instructions, but returned to his room. As the 
door opened she heard him crying out : — 

" Pardon me, dear M, de la Roche. You 
must try von of my Contadinos, I gan really 
regommend them. I brought zem myself from 
Amsterdam, the year pcfore zis distressful nr." 

" A thousand t'anks, my dear Herr Schmidt, 
It is a luxury I seldom allow myself dese days/ 1 

The gentle flow of these suave pleasantries 
reached their appointed crisis. Each man lay 

-— ■ — - HE SAiD, ;&l£E-*HBr" 






back in an easy-chair with a divine Contadino 
between his teeth. On the table stood the little 
glasses filled with the old brandy. 

" Life may be very pleasant -and grassifying 
in the midst of vickedness and sin," murmured 
Herr Schmidt. 

" C'est Ms vrai," replied M. de la Roche. " It 
does not do to even t'ink of dese t'ings all de 

" Friendship is vat I value beyond all else. 
M. de la Roche, to your goot healt' 1 " 

As each man raised the little glass, the door 
opened and Mrs. Huggins announced : — 

" Mr. Trinner and Mr. Snout i " 

Two stolid-looking gentlemen entered, and 
Mrs. Huggins retired. 

Herr Schmidt removed the cigar from his 
mouth and said : — 

" Good evening, gentlemen," and then, with- 
out changing his position, and in a voice without 
any trace of German accent, he addressed 
M. de la Roche as follows : — 

" Ephraim Hyems, I have the honour to 
arrest you on an extradition warrant issued by 
the United States Government, for embezzlement 
in connection with the Pennsylvania Small Arms 
Trust, and, moreover, with an attempt to convey 
certain information to an enemy agent in this 
country, under Article 36 of the Defence of the 
Realm Act." 

The Frenchman leaned forward and, clutching 
the arms of the chair, gave vent to a very 
un-Frenchified expression. He said : — 

" Gee-whiz ! " 

" It hardly required that native vernacular 
to convince me that you were not a Frenchman. 
As a matter of fact, I have lived for many years 
in Paris, and if I may say so without giving 
offence, M. de la Roche, your French never 
convinced me at all." 

The pseudo-Frenchman sat there apparently 
dazed. At length he said : — 

" Professionally speaking, Herr Schmidt, it is 
regrettable that our rdles were not reversed. It 
is true that I know little French, but I happen 
to have spent some years in Germany. I studied 
medicine at Leipzig. Your German is appalling. 
It would not deceive a London policeman. Jn 
this present case I am fully prepared to throw 
up my arms and to cry ' Kamerad ! * only I 
would ask you, as a last request, whether you or 
your assistants would kindly extract my pocket- 
book from my breast-pocket and examine my 
card and any other papers you or they may 
find. And, finally, whether you will allow me to 
finish this glass of very excellent brandy." 

Herr Schmidt bowed. 

"Trout," he said, "turn out all his pockets 
and hand me his pocket-book. In the mean- 
time, the gentleman can enjoy his last plunge 
of dissipation." 

The solemn-looking sub-inspector did as he 
was told, and handed Herr Schmidt the pocket- 
book. That gentleman turned it over slowly 
and drew out a card. When his eye alighted 
on it, his face expressed sudden amazement, 
and then he threw back his head and laughed 

" Cyrus G. Vines ! " he exclaimed. " Cyrus 
G. Vines, of the New York State Police ! It's 
quite true we've been expecting Mr. Cyrus 
G. Vines for some time on this Hyems case. 
Holy Christopher ! and are you really Cyrus 
G. Vines ? Well, I'm blistered ! Also I'm 
glad, if it's true ! We shall require a little 
more evidence on that count. But in the mean- 
time, will you kindly explain your presence 
in Mrs. Huggins' house in Camden Town ? " 

Mr. Vines, grinned. There was no longer 
any of the Frenchman about him. In tact, 
he carefully removed the little tuft of beard 
and moustache of the conventional stage- 
Gaul. He puffed at his cigar, and said : — 

" Unless my calculations are at fault, you 
will be Inspector Hartrigg. It is quite true 
my duty was to report right away to Scotland 
Yard. But it happens I'm a young man. 
Inspector, and \ have ambitions to make good. 
I arrived at Liverpool last Friday; the boat was 
thirty hours ahead of time. . I just thought 
I'd buzz around for a day or two on my own 
and see whether I couldn't get the case a bit 
* straighter to hand over. I get wise that this 
Hyems galoot was boarding on the first floor 
01 this shanty: I tracked him here and 
found him — disguised as a Hun, ! Do you take 
me ?" 

The " Hun " pulled at the little tuft of beard 
between his chins, and twirled his genuine 

" Weil, this is a nice go i '* he said. " Between 
us we have missed the quarry. I confess I 
only traced him to this house. I didn't know 
which floor. But when I discovered that 
there was only one other lodger, and he — a 
Frenchman, the case seemed obvious I " 

• " Say, Inspector," interjected the American, 
" what was your idea of this German stunt ? " 

" Hyems has been further suspected of dealing 
with a German agent, as I have told you. I 
thought a nice friendly German might draw 
him out. That is all. It is quite true I don't 
know German well, although I spent a long time 
in France. Now, tell me what was your idea 
of the French stunt, Vines ? " 

Vines smiled. " A Frenchman enjoys certain 
prerogatives," he replied. " He can be talka- 
tive, inquiring, sympathetic. He can even 
make inquiries concerning * things of the 
heart ' without giving offence. Now, Mrs. 
Huggins is a very charming and sympathetic 
woman, and she has a daughter, I believe — 
although I've never had the pleasure of meeting 

" That's true. But how does this affect 
Hyems ? " 

The " Frenchman " rose and said : — 

" Inspector, I understand that I am tech- 
nically under arrest. But you have already 
granted me two favours while in that condition, 
and I am bold enough to appeal for a third. 
It is that you all three should accompany me 
to my room on the third floor and observe the 
devastating effect of love." 

. The four men trooped upstairs, and 'Vines 
threw open tiur door oi his bedroom. On his 




bed lay Mr. Livermore, neatly gagged and 
bound. , 

" This is our friend Hyems t J> remarked 
Vines. " We will remove? the gag. I put it 
there because I didn't want our dinner disturbed 
by any fuss or excitement.'* 

He removed the gag, and said :— 

" How are you, Hyems ? " 

The wild-eyed man on the bed was in a state 
of collapse. He glanced at the other four men 
and closed his eyes, muttering :— 

44 Go on. It's a do." 

Inspector Hartrigg looked at the man care- 
fully. Then he said :— 

11 By Jove, you're right I That's Hyeras. 
Skinner and Trout, stay with this man for a 
few minutes* He*s under arrest, remember. 
I'll call you in a few minutes. Vines, come down 
to my room again, There arc one or two points 
I'd like to clear up." 

11 Herr Schmidt " and " M. de la Roche ,J 
returned to the room below and surveyed 
the scene of their repast, and then both 

" Come, a little more of this excellent brandy, 
M. de la Roche ; and then tell me how you 
accomplished your capture/' 

They filled their glasses once more* 

" It all came fair easy," explained Vines, 
Jf when I had once ingratiated myself with 
Mrs, Huggins. She's a daisy, that woman I 
She was full of this story about Livermore and 
her Maggie. But it was not till this morning, 
when the mail came, that I got wise on the real 
trend of things* Wherever I am I always 
like to be right there when the mail's delivered. 

There's information of all sorts to be picked 
up, even from the outside. Tins morning 
there was a long envelope franked and sealed, 
addressed to * Herr Schmidt.' I was just 
crazy to open that communication, and I was 
just on the point of securing it when Mrs. 
Muggins came fussing into the haJL I retired 
to my room again for about fifteen minutes. 
When I got back to the hall the long envelope 
addressed to you had vanished and a stranger 
was fingering the mail, I called for Mrs. 
Hugging, When she came she soon put the 
stranger to flight with a broom and her tongue. 
I was a very sympathetic Frenchman, and then 
it was she told me the whole story of Mr. Liver- 
more and her Maggie. While she was speaking 
the whole truth came to me in a flash. I 
realized that Livermore was Hyems, but I 
was darned if I could place you. The capture 
was dead easy- In the hurried removal of 
livermore 's things last night, our good landlady 
had overlooked one or two trifles. She had 
apparently dumped some on that old chest 
at the top of the kitchen stairs. I found a 
small stationery box in which I discovered 
several notes and billets-doux signed by * M/ 
I am no mug at faking calligraphy. This 
afternoon I dispatched a note to Mr, Livermore 
in the handwriting of M. * Do come at five- 
thirty. Mother will be out. Tremendously 
important. — M/ I underlined, 'tremendously 
important J four times. It was one of the 
3ady*s minor characteristics. At five-thirty 
Mrs. Huggins was very considerately buying 
me a couple of shirts in the High Street. I 
was alone in 'Die houise. I let Mr. livermore 




in. The rest was just as easy as skinning a 

" Herr Fritz " laughed. 

" Well, ' Vines," he said, " I congratulate 
you. It was a smart piece of work. I feel 
convinced you are destined to * make good.' 
It looks as though our friend would even now 
be free if he hadn't been so enterprising as to 
rob the mail this morning and steal his own 
warrant of arrest.'* 

" Ah, so that's what it was ! " 

" I notified Chief Inspector Shapples yesterday 
that I had my man under^observation, but when 
I left the Yard the warrant was not complete. 
The whole thing seemed so simple that he said 
he'd post it to me, which is quite an irregular 
proceeding, but one we occasionally indulge in. 
When it did not come this morning I judged 
that you had stolen it, and so I obtained a new 
one to-day. I must say, in fairness to our 
service, that you have been watched and followed 
all day, and that you would have found it 
somewhat difficult to make an escape. I did 
not arrest you before because I did not wish to 
miss our little dinner this evening, and I also 
wanted to glean some information about other 
parties who are still at large. I thought you were 
fencing very skilfully, and, if you will allow me 
to say so, I am glad now that I was quite on 
the wrong tack." 

" Inspector," replied the American, " I have 
not enjoyed such a dinner for a very, y6ry long 
time, and I'm real glad to have made your 

" " After this success I hope the authorities 
will permit you to assist me \n unravelling other 
little troubles in connection with the case before 
you return to New York. Here's to your gooa 
health and prosperity ! " 

" And yoiir^, Inspector ; to say nothing of 
Mrs. Huggins ! My ! isn't she a peach ? " 

" You know, dearie," said Mrs. Huggins, three 
weeks later, in the private bar of the Staff of 
Life, to her friend, Mrs. O'Neil, "it's a very 
rum thing about gals. There's my Mag, now. 
Lord ! how she took on when this 'ere case 
came up ! She was going to do this, that, and 
the other ; but when they really took 'im away 
she calmed down like the lamb she is. And 
now she's already walking out with Sandy Waters, 
as nice a young feller as you could wish to meet. 
He's a soljer. you know, an officer; 'e's got all 
these 'ere stripes on 'is arm — a quartermaster, 
that's what 'e is, gets 'is perks all over the place. 
Gets quite a good livin', and when 'e goes, she gets 
'er maintenance and a bob a day, what 'e allots 
*er like, to say nothin' of seven-and-six for the first 

child, six shillings for the second, three-and-six 
for the third, and three bob apiece for the rest ; 
that is, if the war lasts long enough. They're as 
sweet on each other as a couple of gum-drops in 
a glass bottle." 

Mrs. O'Neil blew the froth off the stout. 

"It's a wonderful interestin' case," she said, 
" what wif all this spyin' and cheatin' and 
stealin'. Lord ! what a narrer escape you *ad, 
Mrs. 'Uggins ! 'Im comin', too, and stealin' the 
postman's letters in the mornin' 1 What a 

Mrs. Huggins coughed, and cleared her throat. 
Then she looked thoughtfully across Her glass, 
and said : — 

" Well, you know, dearie, it's rather funny 
about that part. Of course, you know, it's 
nothing departmental to the case, as they say, 
or I might 'ave spoken out in court about it, 
but, as a matter of fact, 'e never pinched that 
letter at all." 

Mrs. O'Neil looked aghast, and Mrs. Huggins 
winked mysteriously. 

" No. You see," she whispered, " it was like 
this 'ere. I was very rushed that mornin', 
what with the to-do of Mr. Smith's dinner and 
that, and I couldn't get the b'iler to go. I 
never take no noospapers now. There's nothin' 
in 'em, exjeept about this bloomin' war. I takes 
my Reynolds's on Sunday, but as fire-paper that 
don't last long. Lately I've taken to usin' 
these 'ere circulars what come frcm the sales — 
you know, spring goods, white sales, and so on. 
I never looks at era. I simply rips 'em open 
and shoves 'em into the b'iler fire. On that 
mornin', being 'ard-pressed were, I runs up 
into the 'all, and seein* circulars . there, I cops 
'old of 'em and runs down to the scullery. 
I rips 'em open and shoves 'em in. It was 
not till I got the b'iler goin' that I realized 
that one of the circulars 'ad a great red 
sealin'-wax blob on the envelope and it was 
all official-like. It was too late then, but I 
thinks to myself, ' I burnt somethin' I didn't 
ought to then. That was a summons or some- 
thin'.' Soon after that I 'card the rumpus 

" Lord ! " exclaimed Mrs. O'Neil. " You run 
a risk there, Annie." 

" As I say," repeated Mrs. Huggins. " it wasn't 
departmental to the case. There was enough 
proved against 'im to 'ang 'im in this country 
and quarter 'im in America, without draggin' in 
a silly old envelope." 

11 Well, I 'ope your Mag'll be 'appy/* said 
Mrs. O'Neil, wiping her mouth. 

" My Mag'll be all right ; don't you worry," 
replied Mrs. Huggins. 

(7\0 not forget that The Strand Magazine may now be sent post free to British 
soldiers and sailors at home and abroad. All you need do is to hand your copies, 
without wrapper or address, over the counter at any post-office in the United Kingdom, 
and they will be sent by the authorities wherever they will be most welcome. 








IT may be difficult to decide in exactly what 
form the moving picture was first given to 
the world, but among the earliest of optical 
illusions which gave the effect oi figures and 
objects in motion was the phenakisti scope. 

The toy in question consisted of a cardboard 
disc upon which (towards the edge) figures were 
painted in gradually changing positions, indi- 
cating, for instance, the movements of the 
limbs and body of a person dancing, Behind 
this picture -disc was placed another, slightly 
larger, in which slits an inch long by a quarter 
of an inch wide were cut in a direction corre- 
sponding with the radii of the circle, and at 
intervals which brought them above the painted 
figures, which they equaHed in number. The 
two discs wore attached to a handle by means 
of a screw-nut, and were made to revolve at 
the required speed by a touch of the hand 
(Fig. i). The spectator, holding the toy before 
his face with the picture side towards a looking- 
glass, and lookihg from belli nd it through the 
slits, beheld the figures apparently in motion. 
The picture-disc could be removed by means of 
the screw-nut and replaced by another of 
different design. 

The late Professor Pepper tn his ft Play- 
hook of Science " states 


and three-quarter inches in 

that the phenakisti- 
scope was at one time 
on exhibition at the 
old Polytechnic Insti- 
tution, and mentions 
that an instrument was 
constructed by Dubusc 
of Paris for the pur- 
pose of showing the 
usual phenakisti scope 
effects on the screen 
with the magic lan- 
tern, though only a 
very limited picture 
could be thus exhi- 
bited. A selection from 
a number of discs in 
trie writer's possession, 
intended for use in the 
original toy, are shown 
in the accompanying 
illustrations ; they are 
hand - coloured, and 

measure eight 

Some idea as to the date* of their production 
may be gathered from Fig. 2, below, which, 
in the centre, bears the inscription " Mademoiselle 
Taglioni." This famous dancer, at one time 
regarded as the queen of her profession, made 
her first appearance in London in 1829, and 
retired from the stage some twenty years later, 
But perhaps the most amusing to modern 
eyes is the picture 
(Fig* 3) which bears the 
inscription " Journey 
ing to the Moon," and 
which, though it does not 
forecast the aeroplane so 
accurately as Mr. Wells's 
story of the "Land Iron- 
clads" did the Tank, still 
shows that some imagin- 
ative person could be 
hold enough to conceive 
the idea of a flying 
machine in an age when 
the possibility of London 
being attacked from the 
air would have been 
deemed too absurd for a 
moment's serious con- 
sideration, A green wing 
rises and falls, and 
though the engine itself 
2. one of the discs inscribed in the is not visible, a brazier 
article, r Q r j g j n a I f ft$ flowing coals, a boiler, 




and smoking funnel 
j ra ply that the motive- 
power is obtained by 
steam. The pilot* an 
elderly, spectacled 
gentleman, is seated 
on what looks like an 
ordina ry dining - too m 
chair ; the altitude he 
has reached can be 
estimated by the fact 
that a comet, like 
some playful celestial 
porpoise, accompanies 
him on his voyage, per- 
f c >rmLag cart - wheels — 
head over tail — be* 
neath his machine. 
From the redness of his 
nose one fears that, in 
spite of the fact that he 
is almost sitting on the 


boiler* our flying man 
feels the extreme cold 
which no doubt pre- 
vails at the height to 
which he has ascended. 

Says Professor Pepper 
in regard to the phe- 
nakigti scopes exhibited 
at the Polytechnic : 
" Although the same 
designs have done duty 
for many years, they 
still attract the public 

How little did anyone 
then imagine what would 
be the future of the 
li moving picture t " and 
to what extent it would 
" attract the public at- 
tention IJ at the present 
day I 



AT a time like the present, when, the United 
States is knit so closely with this country, 
it seems scarcely possible that there should 
have been a time within living memory when the 
friendly relations between the two great nations 
were questioned. Yet " blood is thicker than 
water " is a truism that had a wonderful ex- 
emplification some forty-six years ago, when for 
a wager of a thousand dollars the star-spangled 
banner was borne the length of the country to 
test the feelings of the British people towards it* 

The Tussaud Chronicles. 

■ I am indebted to the chronicles of the Tussaud 
family — that remarkable and ever available 
source of information for so much that is note- 
worthy in men and matters during the past 
century — for a record of Sergeant Bates's epoch- 
making journey from Scotland to London 
bearing aloft the Stars and Stripes, a triumph 
that gathered in intensity till he arrived at the 
City Guildhall at the head of as enthusiastic 
a procession as has ever marched through the 
streets of London, It was a wonderful ebul- 
lition of feeling, as spontaneous as it was real, 
and while the circumstances, then so resonant, 
have since been almost forgotten, they are worthy 
of recall at the present juncture. 

Colour-Sergeant Gilbert H, Bates „ of the 
24th Massachusetts {U.S. Artillery) Regiment, 
was a patriotic American who had a firm belief 
in the friendship of the English people for their 
American brethren. 

A Previoiu Marck* 

He had previously carried the star-spangled 
banner through the Southern States of America 
to prove the real affection 01 the worsted faction 
for their country. For one thousand five 
hundred miles through States whose streets had 

been stained with the blood of civil carnage ha 
marched with the national flag to the strains of 
patriotic music, an elcquent tribute to his 
countrymen's deep-rooted love of peace. His 
passage was a triumphant success, and the 
exploit is handed down to posterity in Captain 
Mayne Reid's stirring poem H( From VicksbuTg to 
the Sea,' 1 the first of its rive verses being : — 
14 Bear on the banner, soldier bold 1 
How Southern hearts must thrill 
To see the flag, so loved of a41 p 

Waving above them still ! 
What chords 'twill touch, what echoes wake. 

Of that far truer time 1 
Who knows but it the spell may break 
That maddened them to crime," 

Fomenting Trouble. 

This was remotely the origin of Bates's English 
expedition. Calumny was rife in the States. 
No theme had been so often discussed for two 
years as that of the feeling of John Bull towards* 
Uncle Sam. The malicious craft of certain 
politicians had led them to foster elements of 
hate towards the old country, and a corrupt 
section of the Press had lent itself to the un- 
worthy task of exaggerating trifles and dis- 
torting facts to suit the fancies of gullible 

The Wager. 

It was in the course of one such discussion as 
to the feeling of the English towards Americans 
that this lover of concord was led to make a 
wager of one hundred dollars against one 
thousand dollars that the people of England 
would not insult the flag of America, but would. 
welcome it heartily wherever it should be borne 
by an American soldier. Not a few of his com- 
patriots were incredulous of his success, and they 
predicted that he would miserably fail, while 

Copyright, t<,* 9i by John Tbeod^lfr^dl JY OF MICHIGAN 



one said, ** I bet he don't travel twelve miles 
before he sets face homeward and leaves his 
bean-pole in the custody of some parish beadle*" 
The gallant sergeant was determined and 
confident, however, and, taking passage in the 
Anchor liner Europa, he crossed the Atlantic, 

The Man and the Flag. 

Bate:; was a small but well-built man, 
five feet seven and a half inches in height, 
square-shouldered and square-headed, clean- 
shaven, with clear grey eyes, dark hair, and 
swarthy skin. His age was thirty-four, and he 
wore the uniform of a sergeant of the Federal 
Army. He is described as modest, intelligent, 
well -informed j and a very good specimen ol the 
unassuming, matter-of-fact, and practical' Yankee, 
The flag he carried was from a piece of Array 
bunting from the headquarters of General 
Sheridan, It was of regulation size, six feet hy 
six and a half feet, and the hickory staff measured 
nine feet. Before he left he was assured by a 
member of Parliament in Chicago that, as the 
Americans had honoured the Knglisn Prince 
when he visited that country, the EnMhsh 
people, in return, would honour the American 
" Prince * — which was their flag* And so v it 
turned out. 

It was on v the 5th of November, 1872— Guy 
Fawkes 1 Day and the anniversary of the Battle of 
inkermann — that Sergeant Bates left Edinburgh 
for Gretna Green, 

The Start from Gretna. 

With no quiver of fear antf with a heart full 
of gladness he stood upon Sark Bridge and, 
uncovering his head, gave the star-spangled 
banner to the breeze. A 
few merry rustics gave him 
some hearty cheers and the 
historic march was begun. 
The country before him 
was* England, the Mother 
country, the home of the 
English language, the freest 
and most peaceful country 
in Europe. 

He reached Carlisle that 
evening without anything 
more important happening 
than a rigid cross-exam- 
ination by an excited old 
woman as to whether he 
was heralding a Fenian 
invasion, and an anxious 
inquiry from a little boy 
■'/ whrn the circus 
would arrive- 

Arrived at the Bush Hotel 
at Carlisle, a party of com- 
mercial travellers gave him 
a right hearty British wel- 
come, and this henceforth 
became the order of the 
day at whatever town or village he put in an 
appearance. Hews of his coming preceded him, 
and his progress was one continuous ovation, 
culminating in a veritable furore when he 
reached his journey's end* 


A portrait study by John T. Tiissaud, founded 

on the original model taken from life by bis fat her > 

Joseph R. TussaurL 

The Wager Withdrawn. 

Through Penrith and Snap, where he was 
cheered by the miners, who had sent men, from 
the quarries to watch for his approach, he made 
his way to Kendal where, at a dinner given in 
his honour, he announced that he had written 
to cancel the wager he had made — and thus 
far won- He did this in token of the purity of 
his motives, and to prove that he was not 
actuated by mercenary considerations. 

From Kendal he proceeded to Lancaster, 
which city he entered followed by an enormous 
crowd, a similar concourse escorting him to the 
outskirts on his departure* 

At Garstang, between Lancaster and Preston, 
he was entertained at a sumptuous repast and 
the streets were full of people, the church 
scholars, drawn up in line, cheering the flag and 
its bearer as they passed. 

The Dove of Peace. 

The streets of Preston were lined with spec* 
tators ; at Chorley cheers were given for the 
Queen and President Giant, and at Bolton the 
flag-bearer was presented with a pair of clogs 
and given a !ive turtle-dove to take back with 
him to the American President, Manchester 
was reached on the 14th of November, and here 
the flag had an immense reception, the crowd 
in Market Street being so dense that the open 
carriage which the Sergeant was obliged to 
enter couid scarcely make headway. Lodged 
at the Royal Hotel, he was presented with a 
Union Jack and was pestered by several enter- 
prising showmen, one of whom offered bim as much 
as sixty pounds a night for rive weeks if he would 
only consent to lend himself 
and the flag, but this he 
resolutely declined to do* 

From Manchester to Mac- 
clesfield he met with a repe- 
tition of the same hearty 
ovations* At Macclesfield 
he was treated H ke a prince, 
royally entertained, and 
presented with a gold 
breast-pin by the Mayor. 
Through Cougleton, Burs- 
Jem, Stafford, Wolver- 
hampton, and so on to 
Birmingham, the march 
was like that of a trium- 
phant warrior, the crowds 
at Bates's heels, marshalled 
in milifary order, tramp- 
ing along singing the na- 
tional melodies of the 
two countries ; w Rule Brit- 
annia " and " Yankee 
Doodle " being the favour- 
ite airs. 

At West Bromwich, where 
the flag-bearer stood for a 
moment to salute the Union Jack, a man rushed 
out and crowned his flagstaff with laureL He 
entered Birmingham escorted by a crowd of 
all classes, both serais ?nrl all age^, and the 
proprietor; of r the Hen and £hickeus Hotel placed 



the house, the wine cellar, and even his cash* 
drawer at his guest's disposal 

Oxford Hospitality. 

At Oxford he was met by students from New 
College, who treated him with great gentleman- 
liness, one observing. " Sergeant, you surely 
never expected that the people of England 
would fall upon one man* did you ? " " No,." 
replied Bates, drawing himself up* * 4 I have 
come through England, not only believing that 
my flag would not be insulted, but feeling sure 
that Englishmen would show it such respect every- 
where that my countrymen would hail my coming 

He fell with that flag in his hand." Her soil 
an Englishman had given his life fighting for 
the Union. At another place a grimy sweep, 
fresh from a job, embraced the American most 

Arrival at Shepherd '• Bush. 

Bates's quarters at Shepherd's Bush were at 
the Telegraph, and during the Friday evening the 
hotel was in a state of siege. Sir John Bennett, 
an ex-Sheriff of the City, had offered to lend the 
soldier a carriage, but it was ultimately decided 
to use an open equipage drawn by a pair of greys, 
one of them mounted by a postilion. 



as a step full of joyful hope for the future/' 
'"Bravo!" exclaimed the undergraduate. 

Invitations poured in upon the happy soldier. 
He supped in University College and breakfasted 
in Trinity. 

On through High Wycombe and Uxbridge 
passed the soldier with his flag, and the crowd 
was great as he set out for Shepherd's Bush, 
whence he was to proceed through London. 

There were incidents humorous and pathetic, 

At one place an aged woman tottered up to 
him from a wayside house and, leaning on her 
stick, said, " Let me touch the flag and give my 
blessing to the bearer. My youngest boy fought 
for that flag and died for it in your country. 

The daily papers of the 2nd of December. 
1872, give a full account of the proceed! rigs. 
Seated in the carriage was Sergeant Bates 

holding his beloved flag, while two other flags 

the Union jack and the Star-Spangled banixei 
--trailed behind, the horses' trappings being 
decorated with international symbols. Up dot- 
ting Hill, along Bays water Road, and througH 
Oxford Street passed the carriage, sur rounded 
and followed by a huge crowd. In Bond Street 
the horses were taken out and the carriage was 
dragged by some twenty-five persons aiortg 
St. James's Street, Pall Mall, by Charing Cross, and 
through the Strand and Fleet Street* up Ludgate 



Scene at the Guildhall 

A dense mass of people had congregated in 
tlie Guildhall Yard, where a British sergeant was 
carrying the English Standard. The scene 
beggared description ; the Guildhall itself was 
full to overflowing, and, having alighted, Bates 
had perforce to be lifted on shoulders and 
Hoisted, flag and all, back into the carriage, 
from which place of vantage he made a speech 
before refurling his banner. He was delighted 
with his reception in the heart of the great 
Metropolis and never forgot the sea of faces, 
the endless crowds, the fluttering flags, the 
-waving handkerchiefs, the cheers, and the 
kindly greeting of that memorable day. His 
hand seemed to have been wrung into pulp, and 
he was struck with the phrasing of the oft- 
repeated saiutation. " Give us your hand, old 
pal . " Cabmen had little American flags mounted 
on their vehicles or pinned to their horses' heads, 
ladies had the Stars and Stripes for . carriage 
aprons, and children waved toy flags. 

Madame Tustaud's. 

Sergeant Bates was somewhat annoyed by 
relic-hunters, who, could they have had their 
way, would soon have whittled his flagstaff into 
imperceptible pieces and * riven the banner into 
a thousand shreds. He gave a piece of flag and 
his boots to Madame Tussaud's Exhibition as a 

small offering to those of the British public 
" who," as he quaintly remarked, " worship 
such things and who find at Madame Tussaud's 
perhaps the best field for the satisfaction of 
their curiosity." Writing from the Langham 
Hotel, where he was staying, he observed that 
Madame Tussaud's had previously voted him a 
niche among the immortal heroes who adorned 
their exhibition, a mark of honour for which he 
was told he ought to feel no small pride. 

The Sergeant's Prayer. 

And what had Sergeant Bates accomplished ? 
He claimed to have succeeded in bringing the 
two great nations' hearts near to each other till 
they seemed to beat in, unison, and the pulsation 
of the one was for a while that of the other. 
" God grant," he said, " that work so begun may 
not willingly be laid down." 

Shoulder to Shoulder. 

The continuation of that work has been, and 
is still being, abundantly manifested ever since 
the United States joined the Allies in, their 
determined fight for freedom, and there are 
thousands who echo Sergeant Bates's words, 
" May the flags of both countries ever wave 
in freedom and peace till that far truer time 
when there shall be but one flag, because but 
one people, on the face of the earth." 



WHEN I rea«r the fascinating story of 
how our " Whippet " Tanks, in con- 
junction with cavalry and infantry, 
dashed at the foe and harried them so success- 
fully, I drew from a drawer in my desk a hand- 
kerchief of prophecy, or, if you like, a prophetic 
handkerchief. I did not do so as the preliminary 
of any conjuring trick or to engage in any act 
connected with divination. It was just to see 
how the little square of white cotton printed 
with quaint pictures and lettering was keeping 
tally of the progress of events. It has been my 
habit so to do from time to time. 

This handkerchief ip about a century old. 
Frequent washing has faded the colour some- 
what, but still it is able to tell its Story. It has 
a printed title, displayed along the bottom 
margin thus : " The Century of Invention, 
Anno Domini 2000; or the March of Aerostation, 
Steam, and Perpetual Motion." There is a 
great landscape with foreground, middle distance, 
distance, and sky, filled with interesting subjects 
of the "handkerchief-maker's fancy regarding 
future developments. 

But about the "Whippet" Tanks? Well, 
*right across the middle distance there is a double 
column, of twelve military men, headed by an 
officer. EacJh gallant fellow is seated astride 
a little steam-engine having an exhaust-pipe 
or smoke 'funnel at the rear and wheels remark- 
ably like motor-car wheels of to-day, each 
having a mud-guard exactly like a modern 
model* From the lips of the officer these words 

are shown as proceeding : " Attention I ! ! Get 
your bellows ready and prepare to blow your 
fires." Obviously this represents a squadron 
of steam cavalry engaged in manoeuvres. Lest 
there be any doubt on this score, two figures in 
cocked hats, tunics, Wellington boots, and such- 
like old-fashioned gear are shown watching the 
procession, and one is saying: " Look here, my 
boy, here are the Steam Guards." 

Comment on this is that the prophecy of the 
handkerchief, that soldiers would forsake the 
horse for the automobile engine, has been 
fulfilled long before 2000 A.D. 

These old fellows are standing beneath a 
public gas-lamp which has three tiers of gas-jets. 
It was not till 1810 that the London Gas Light 
and Coke Company was formed, and the honoured 
place in the picture assigned to the gas-lamp 
indicates that the novelty of the new luminant 
had not yet worn off. Wafted from the open 
window of «a dwelling overlooking the gas-lamp 
is this little bit of dialogue : " Why, by all 
accounts, the coal-mines in the North are 
nearly exhausted 1 " " Yes, I saw in the 
Steam Register last night that the coal-mine 
under Blackheath is to be opened to supply 
the market." Furthermore, leaning against the 
shop bearing the name of " W. Blow Out," 
there is a notice-board reading : " Wonders 
Will Never Cease. Great Bargains. No Puffing. 
Selling Off at Prime Cost, 150 Tubs of Hydrogen 
Gas, as the Proprietor is about to Remove these 
Premises to Winder." ^ * 




Up in tfce air, an airship consisting of four 
Montgolfier balloons, with a boat -shaped struc- 
ture well 'crowded with passengers, is speeding 
along with sails set fore and aft and aloft. This 
craft is inscribed ** The Mail to China." Our 
handkerchief -prophet has still more than eighty 
years in hand before his dream in this particular 
need be justified by fact, but even he would be 
surprised if he could learn that men have flown 
from England to Egypt and India " quite in ordi- 
nary routine, without special preparation/* and 
that an aviator's flight across the Atlantic is 
likely 300a to be chronicled. Two balloon clubs 
are seen competing in a squadron race< In each 
case the aeronauts are shown to be steering by 
the manipulation of sails, and we are conveniently 
informed by the voice of a gentleman sneaking 

In an open carriage propelled by steam an 
aristocrat, or a past-profiteer of the Napoleonic 
wars, is seen taking life very easily. A servant 
in livery is on the box driving the steam -engine t 
the mechanism of which is discreetly concealed. 
Another liveried servant is perched in the foot- 
man's seat behind. Blowing a cloud from his 
pipe, reading a book, conscious of having aJJ 
the ingredients of a bowl of punch — even to a. 
kettle of hot water— to his hand, the great man 
bowls merrily across the centre of the fore- 

A barber, late for an appointment to shave 
w His Honour," has had a breakdown of his 
Bteam car— *quite a small gadabout prototype of 
a Ford. A porter, also astride his car, is 
*' grousing " because his client has expected him 


to liis lady friend that " There are four and a 
stearer (sic) in each." 

On a huge hollow column set upon a many- 
sided, broad -stepped base there is seen up among 
the clouds " The Sky High Inn/' displaying a 
huge bill on which it quotes its terms for each 
balloon-party making use of its sky-high landing - 
stage. Good business seems to be duing at the 
Sky High Inn, as three balloons are moored to 
the edge of its platform, while, below, a party 
of aeronauts is seen descending the Steps. 

With the conventional wings of angels fastened 
to their shoulders, gentlemen armed with muzzle- 
loading fowling- pieces are flying about having 
shots at the feathered game, or having a chat 
as, with courteous! y-dorTed hats, they make a 
chance encounter with friends taking a fC con* 
Stitutionai » in the air. 

to go from St. Pauls to Bamet in half an hour. 
We get, in a comer, a glimpse of a steam -hauled > 
menagerie, outside which 3. showman is calling : 
"Walk up 1 Walk up I A rare exhibition to 
be seen here, A Live Horse I I I Supposed to 
be the very last of the nice*" There are huge 
ten- wheeled cars for passengers by road — double- 
decked cars these, certified to carry " 100 inside 
and izo uutside." There is a chapel on wheels, 
a balloon- maker's establishment on wheels, a 
bazaar on wheels, and many other vehicles— 
and all stream-propelled. The only quadrupeds 
visible are a pack of dogs and a hunted deer, for 
even the huntsmen are all astraddle little steam- 
horses. And for a gracious finish there is, in 
the foreground, a man carrying over his shoulder 
a notice to the effect that a cast-iron parson is 

to preach I Original from 





I frustrated by Stan fey 

HE sermon was proceeding airaost 
exactly to John Fearon's liking. 
Here and there ~ he might have 
put this or that point a little 
differently. But, after ail, the 
points were there. He checked 
them off, one by one, as they 
came from the preacher's iros. 
Naturally he agreed with them. For the most 
part they were his own suggestions. 

John Fearon sat by himself in his pew, which 
was to hold six, but rarely held anyone except 
John Fearon. The church officials understood 
that no one was ever to be shown into Sir John 
Fearon's pew. That was the first thing toid any 
new pew-opener. Its long scarlet cushion re- 
mained a band of scarlet as you looked down from- 
the gallery, even upon the most crowded congre- 
gation which ever filled Sedbury Park Church. 

The new minister^ was doing well. It was 
through John Fearon that he had been chosen. The 
strong, hard arguments he now urged, in a cultured 
Oxford voice, reinforced here and there by a 
graceful gesture or an apt quotation, were largely 
John Fearon's arguments. 

" Preach a strong sermon on the modern 
woman. I will tell you what to say " ; that 
had been Fearon's injunction, almost his com- 
mand. " It's needed. Besides, it will attract 
attention. I know how to fill the church." 

" I will preach my first sermon on Jezebel," 
the Rev. Edward Maddison had said at once. 
Naturally he was grateful to Fearon and desired 
to show it. 

" Excellent. You might like to hear my views. 
Sit down and listen to them. Smoke one of 
these cigars." 

Then had followed the long talk in Fearon's 
library, a week ago, which was now being 
reproduced so satisfactorily in Maddison 's first 
sermon to the packed congregation which filled 
Sedbury Park Church, Burchester. 

John Fearon was a dominating sort of man, a 
very successful man, a very wealthy man, a man 
of strong views on all sorts of subjects. Success 
in money-making had made him think that he 
had also a brain for other things. -Natural 
enough this. He knew * how to make money, 
he knew how to fill a church. It was rather 
curious, perhaps, that John Fearon, rich man, 

successful fortune-maker out of manufacturing 
screws and nails, should also understand women. 
But, curious or not, that seeming contradiction 
never struck John Fearon in the light of a. con 
tradiction. He understood money-making, and 
he had made money ; he understood women, 
and he had told the new minister the points to 
make in his sermon. The two great puzzles of 
life were not puzzles to John Fearon. He 
claimed to be a double expert. 

" Miss Jessie has come home, sir. I told her 
you were at qhapel, but would be back soon. She 
has only just come, sir." 

With these words John Fearon was greeted 
as he entered his house. Sedbury House, 
Sedbury Park, Burchester, the house of Sir John 
Fearon, was more than an adequate house even 
for a man who has bought a knighthood. It 
was a magnificent house, with magnificent 
grounds. It had more than one garden. It had 
various " glasshouses." Sir John grew chrysan^ 
themums and orchids. A man must have 
hobb^s. One must do something, if one has no 
liking for golf or any game in which one cannot 
always be successful. 

Sir John now drew off his gloves and handed 
his silk hat to his servant before speaking. 

" So Miss Jessica has come home. Did she 
say how long she was going to stay ? " he asked. 

He was vaguely annoyed at the independent 
way in which his daughter managed her own 
affairs — as he always was ; at what she was, an 
actress — an old bone of contention ; and also at 
the fact that his servant had spoken of his being 
" at chapel," and not " at church." He always 
used the word " church " himself. 

" No, sir. Not definitely, sir. But she spoke 
of motoring back to London this evening." 

Sir John muttered something about " rest- 
lessness," and at that moment Jessica Fearon 
appeared to speak for herself. She came down- 
stairs. She did so with a sure command of 
herself. Her experience of the stage had given 
her a certain power to appear well even in the 
little ordinary actions of daily life. Her youth 
and striking beauty were never lost. She was 
well dressed, and she stopped half-way down the 
stairs and spok^ dowa to her father. 










He looked up, and he was compelled to see 
her as she wished him to see her, at her best. 
She had a difficult thing to do that day, and she 
was setting about doing it carefully. 

■* You are looking well, Jessica," he said, in 
his bluLt, direct way, coming straight to the 

,c X am glad you like my new dress," she said, 
smiling. " I believe it suits me." 

" Well, surely you have not come down to 
Burchester to fascinate me ! m 

She blushed.. He looked at her sharply. 

" Lunch will not be ready just yet," he said. 
** Come into the drawing-room." 

They went into that room — the woman's room 
in that house in which there was no woman's 
touch, in which the housemaid put the flowers 
the gardener gave her regularly in regular 

But in that room, before lunch, John Fearon 
found out nothing. Jessica talked about orchids 
and nothing else, and, although he did not know 
she was doing so,, she talked her father into a 
good humour. 

During lunch Jessica talked about London, 
and' her father talked about Burchester. He 
was standing for Parliament for one of the city 
divisions, that in which Sedbury Park was 
included, and he had begun to nurse the con- 
stituency. He told her this as a surprise. 

" And now I know," exclaimed Jessica, gaily, 
" why on a beautifully fine morning you go to 
church in a frock-coat, a stiffly-starched waist- 
coat, a glossy collar, and a silk hat. You deserve 
to win!" 

She faced him across the table, her elbows on 
the cloth, her pretty face resting in the cup made 
by her hands. And she smiled, happy and 
challenging. For she was happy, very happy 
indeed. She would be completely happy if only 
she could be sure of one thing. And she did 
challenge her father — she had challenged him 
for years past more or les£ successfully. She 
challenged him in her mode of life against his 
mode of life. Partly in nervousness, partly 
in sheer high spirits, she now dared actually to 
^itoake fun of him. 

The remark from her point of view was 
Unfortunate. John Fearon toojt himself very 
seriously, and he remembered he had gone to 
chapel that morning not merely because it was 
wise to do so from the point of view of the next 
General Election, but also because he was going 
to hear a sermon for the outline of which at least 
he was responsible. And that reminded him of 
a good many things, and of a good deal about 
Jessica he did not like. 

" You shouldn't make fun of things you don't 
understand, Jessica." 

" I am not making fun. I am admiring your 

** Nothing of the sort, Jessica. You are im- 
puting to me what would be the motives of a man 
in your world, in doing what I did this morning. 
He would be playing the hypocrite. But you 
are wrong. I am not that. The 1 opinions I stand 
for I believe. This morning I was in complete 

agreement with the whole of the sermon/' 
, VoL Wil-m 

" Oh, my dear father ! " 

She was divided between a desire to laugh and 
a desire to weep. How could he be so deadly 
serious with no one present except his own 
daughter ! What would the world be like 
without its harmless deceptions ? 

Still, she saw that the advantage was now 
against her. She could have kicked herself 
for being so foolish as to tread on corns which 
she knew quite well were there. And suddenly 
she remembered something which alarmed her. 
She had seen the subject of that morning's 
sermon announced on a notice-board outside the 
church as she had passed it coming home — 
Jezebel. She couid guess what the sermon had 
been like if her father had liked it. His views 
on women were known to her. 

He pushed aside his dessert-plate and leaned 
back in his chair. 

" And now, Jessica, let's have it. What have 
you come to see me about ? " 

Jessica had a fine spirit. 

" I've come to tell you something." 

" Ye? ? " 

" I'm going to be married." * 

" Well, if the man is a sound man, that is a 
sound proposition. Ycu need steadying." 

" So that is your idea of marriage, from the 
woman's point of view." 

" One of my ideas. If a woman has good 
looks she needs steadying: I say it again — 
marriage steadies her." 

" I am not marrying because I feel the need 
of being steadied. I am marrying a man because 
I love him," 

" I hope 'he is a good man in a good position." 

He spoke tentatively, as if he meant to imply 
that it was unlikely that she would be able to 
pick out of her world the sort of man he had in 
mind. And she felt this and curbed her rising 
inclination to make no effort to try to conciliate 
him. What he meant by " good " was so very 
likely to be something quite different from what 
she would mean in judging a man. And she 
ought to be the judge, not he. 

" Well, naturally I think him a good man," 
she said, lightly. 

" Who is he ? Where does he come from ? 
What does he do for a living ? Where and how 
did you meet him ? " 

" I met him in London. There is a Bur- 
chester Society, as you know. I think you are a 
vice-president. '* 

it T _ __ It 

I am. 

" I met him at one of the meetings. He comes 
from Burchester." 

" Who is he ? " 

She did not answer. When it came to the 
point she was just a little afraid. 

" Who is he ? " 

" His name is Gerald Ormandy." 

" Nephew of John Ormandy ? " 

" Yes." 

For a full minute John Fearon looked at his 
daughter and said nothing. 
»" It's impossible," he said, at last, just as 

if he had been finally refusing some business 

« 1 ■_■ r i L|ii 1 -.1 1 iruiii 




''Gh, of course 
I knew you would 
say that. You and 
his uncle have not 
been on speaking 
terms for years. 
But why should 
he and I have our 
lives ruined be- 
cause of that?" 

woman* 1 I am not the sort of man to 
make rules to break them/' 

" Neither am I the sort of girl to give 
way simply because I am told to give 

She answered him bravely- Even 
though he was her father, he angered 
her. She coloured. Her eyes shone, 
She looked adorable, 

"And if I do marry 
without your consent — 
what is the penalty ? " 

** The chanties in Bur- 
Chester will benefit very 
greatly by my death/* 
* f As bad as that ? " 
,- Yes, as bad as that. 1 * 


" I cannot enter into details, Jessica* Don't 
exaggerate about having your life ruined, My 
daughter cannot marry John Ormandy's nephew/' 

" Why ? " 

" Because I say so, " 

Fe a roii's brain had been working m its usual 
way. " Be firm now" it told him, " and you 
will settle the matter." " In dealing with women 
what is wanted is a firm hand/* that was another 
thing it told him* "A girl's broken heart is 
easily healed,*' that was a third thing, 

" But you don't seriously think I can accept 
that — as a reason ? " 

** Certainly. If I refuse consent that is a very 
good reason for your not marrying Gerald 

" But it's no reason. Whereas if I love him. 
that is a reason why I should marry him." 

11 My dear Jessica, do you expect me to argue 
the point ? " 

" Yes, I do/ 1 

* One of my rules k, ' Never argue with a 


M You have thought all this out beforehand ? " 

" Well, I admit I have always thought it 

possible that I might some day have trouble 

with you over this very question. A pretty girl 

is always apt to make a mess of her marriage." 

He smiled, But his clumsy attempt to mollify 
her miscarried. For he was up against her 
outraged womanhood. She knew his views. 
And she knew them %Q be hpth cruel and unj u$t. 




" Aren't you — > 
prejudiced I " 

He paused, took 
a cigar from Ms 
case, and slowly 
lighted it, He knew 
there was a brain 
against him. How 
should he best fight 

"Prejudiced ? ri he 
asked* pleasantly. 
" How ? Against 
John Ormandy, or 
against women in 
general ? '* 

" Both," 

l< Do you know 

" Come, Jessica. Take 
my advice. Think it 
over. I don't consent, 
I'm sorry, but I can't. 
You would be th rawing 
yourself away/' 

But she was not 

She leaned forward 
Her whole thoughts 
were about the man 
she loved. 

' You can't throw 
dust in my eyes, father/* 
she said. " What is it 
you have against John 
Ormandy ? Something 
which makes you say 


why I quarrelled with John Ormandy ? " he 

M No, How should I ? You have never told me/' 

11 But do you know ? " 

** No, I should be interested to know/' 

* 4 Oh, it's an old quarrel— long dead. It's 
best dead — and buried/' 

He was relieved, however, and he poured out 
f *r himself a glass of port* 

cannot marry his nephew. What 

" Nothing -now/' 

" You don't convince me/' 

4t I can't help that. I simply think that this 
marriage is not good enough for my daughter/' 

Little did he know what storm he was 

" Not good enough ! " exclaimed Jessica* 
" Not substantial enough I Not sufficiently 
heavily weighted with gold I Not to a man who 
is likely to squeeze money out of' those who 
work for him and become what you arc — rich ! 
Not a good enough price, now or prospective, 
to be paid for me 1 Oh, how I hate that sort of 
view of marriage ! I tell you frankly, it is not 
good enough for me I " 




He drew in the smoke of his excellent cigar, 
and it comforted him. 

" It's no good shouting, Jessica," he said, 
calmly. " You know my decision." 

" A woman always makes a scene," he was 
telling himself. " But her anger passes. It is 
only necessary to keep firm/' 

He understood women, you see ! 

" Will you come and look at my new orchids ? " 
he said. 

" Of course. I should like to see them." 

She regained control of herself quickly. She 
even smiled. For she also had a brain. 

He was a little surprised. But he kept his 
head. By all the rules of the game, she ought to 
have broken down and cried. He was a little 
uneasy. It did not occur to him that perhaps 
after all he really understood less about women 
than he thought he did. But he was a little 
uneasy. Why did she not break down and cry ? 

" Well, come along," he said, lightly. " They 
are worth seeing." 

"Mr. John Ormandy." 

The door was closed, and John Fearon stood 
up to receive the man he had asked to come 
and see him, and who, although there had 
been a natural fear that he might not come, 
had come. 

" I am glad you have been kind enough to 
, come and see me. Probably you have guessed 
what I have asked you to come and talk about. 
An hour ago my daughter Jessica left me. She 
is motoring back to London to-night, as she has 
a rehearsal to attend to-morrow morning. I 
suppose you know that she and your nephew 
want to marry ? " 

John Ormandy, organist of Burchester Cathe- 
dral, was a man essentially different in almost 
every particular from John Fearon. Whereas 
Fearon was stout, thick-set, strong, and massive 
in build, he was tall and thin ; his shoulders 
stooped slightly, his face gave an impression, 
when in repose, of a calm mind prone to thought, 
but not a strong mind, or, at any rate, one possess- 
ing that strength which is popularly supposed 
to adorn successful manhood. And whereas 
Fearon 's manner was always a little stiff and 
pompous, even in his most genial moments, and 
was particularly so now in hiding a nervousness 
which he would have scorned to admit, but which 
was none the less real, Ormandy's manners were 
always natural and easy. He was one of those 
men who hate to make a fuss. And now, despite 
the fact that during the last twenty years he had 
never spoken to Fearon, seeing that he had been 
asked to come and see him, and by his coming had 
obviously consented to renew relations with him, 
he saw no occasion to be stiff and formal. 

" Yes," he said, " I know all about it. May I 
sit down ? " 

" Of course. This chair. I think you will 
find it comfortable." 

" More than comfortable — luxurious." 

He could not resist this dig at Sir John Fearon 's 
library. He glanced casually at the books, 
behind glass doors, in leather bindings, in com- 
plete sets — but probably never read. 

" I have not asked you to come and see me 
without a good deal of hesitation," Fearon 

" Well, you have asked me, and I have come." 

" I have acknowledged your kindness in 

" Is there really any necessity, Fearon, for aJl 
this preliminary fuss ? My nephew wants to 
marry your daughter. Your daughter wants to 
marry my nephew. I am quite agreeable. You 
are not. You want to talk things over. I have 
no objection to -doing so." 

" Well, you put the thing in a nutshell," said 
Fearon, bluntly. "I do not consent to my 
daughter marrying your nephew. Surely even 
you 'must admit it would not be — decent." 

" I have said I am quite agreeable to the 
marriage," said Ormandy, quietly. 

" Really, Ormandy," exclaimed Fearon, " you 
are a most impossible man." 

" If you mean I am quite different from 
you " 

" I mean what I say. You are impossible to 
deal with." 

" Then why trouble to deal with me ? For 
my part I do not see the slightest reason why our 
old quarrel about a woman, whose life you ruined, 
should stand in the way of my nephew and your 
daughter marrying. Neither of them knows 
anything about it. Why should they ? " 

" Your nephew knows nothing about? it ? " 

" Nothing. I told you twenty years ago that 
I should keep the secret. I have kept it. I 
promised never to tell anyone, not for your sake 
or my sake, but for the sake of the woman who 
was then alive, whom I loved but whom you 

" I know all about your advanced views, 

" My views are not at all advanced. In fact, as 
things go nowadays, they are quite respectable. ' ' 

" Even for a cathedral organist." 

Ormandy smiled. The vulgar gibe was not 
worth answering. 

Fearon, still walking up and down, began to 
talk rapidly. 

" Let me tell you a story. Twenty years ago 
there were two young men here in Burchester. 
One was industrious, hard-working. He was 
rapidly building up a fortune. The other was an 
excellent amateur musician — nothing more. The 
first young man married the prettiest girl in 
Burchester. The second young man induced her 
to run away with him. But the first young man, 
acting swiftly, took a special train and caught 
the runaways and brought his wife back. He 
took her back on conditions. The whole thing 
was kept quiet. Twenty years later the first 
young man, become a rich man, refuses to consent 
to his only child marrying the nephew of the man 
who came near to success in wrecking his married 
happiness. The nephew, who has lived with that 
man since childhood, has had his character formed 
by him, has absorbed his views of life, his curious 
ideas of right and wrong — is, to all intents and 
purposes, his son. Of course I refuse my consent, 
Ormandy. Of course I refuse it. No right- 
minded man wouLd blame me." 




" I wonder that phrase your ' married happi- 
ness * did not stick in your throat, Fear on/' said 
Ormandy. " You - never had any ' married 
happiness/ you know. Neither had she, poor 
thing. You know as well as I do that Lucy 
Brooke only married you because her parents 
made her do it." 

" She died my wife, respected as my wife. 

She had always every comfort money could buy." 

" And a husband whose idea of treating a wife 

was not essentially different from a horse-dealer's 

idea of breaking in a horse." 

Ormandy spoke without a trace of feeling, in 
a quiet, level voice. 

" But I was' her husband, and you were not." 
" Mercifully for her she died. Has it ever 
occurred to you, Fearon, that you billed her ? " 

" You are talking preposterous nonsense," 
Fearon broke out. " You are abusing my 
hospitality. I shall not listen to you." 
He moved towards the bell. 
" Stop ! " Ormandy now spoke sharply. 
" You will listen to me. Your daughter came 
to see me after leaving you, and after I got your 
note asking me to come in and see you this 
evening. She wanted to know why you and I 
had quarrelled. I did not tell her. I told her 
that you should tell her, and that she could then 
decide for herself whether our quarrel was any 
reason why she should not marry Gerald. If she 
insists on being told, and Gerald also insists, I 
intend to tell my version of what happened in the 
past. It's somewhat different from yours. 
Supposing you consent to the marriage, neither 
version need be told, and the past may remain 
dead and buried." 

fi I shall not consent to her marrying your 

" But you will listen to my version of what 
happened twenty years ago." 
" I suppose I must." 

" Well, sit down, Fearon. You fidget me, 
walking about I am just going to tell you quite 
quietly and dispassionately my view now of 
what happened twenty years ago." 

Then began half an hour in John Fearon 's 
life which he never afterwards forgot. Ormandy 
did not spare him. He told him now once again 
exactly what he had told him twenty years 
before. After explaining to him that Lucy Brooke 
never loved him, and that after she married him 
she hated him, he recalled item by item each 
detail of that episode of her running away from 

" She came to me that day quite desperate. 
I need not tell you the things she said about 
you. You had not shown actual physical cruelty, 
but I adhere to my remark that your idea of 
married life could be summed up under that 
phrase — breaking the woman in. She told me 
that living with you had taught her what my 
love might have made life for her, and she told 
me that she did love me, had always loved me, 
had never loved you, would always love me, 
would burn her boats and cross the Rubicon with 
me if I would take her across. Remember, I 
loved her. I consented to help her, and all the 
time I was holding myself in with all m> 

ny strength 

so that I might not take her in my arms and kiss 
her back to happiness. I even told her to go 
back to you, at least for that night. But she 
refused point-blank. She refused to go to any of 
her relations, knowing well enough that her 
family had made her marriage with you for their 
own advantage. Finally, I took her up to 
London by the last train from Burchester that 
evening, and you followed us up by taking a 
special train. But I was taking her that night 
to my sister's in Hampstead. I told you that 
at the time." 

" And I told you I did not believe you. I 
didn't and I don't." 

" As you please, Fearon. But it was true." 

" Who would believe such an obvious lie ? 
I caught you up, as you know, after ten o'clock, 
at the Station Hotel, where you were having 
supper together and where you had booked a 

" For myself only." 

" Moreover, your sister was not expecting 

" But I tell you I was taking her up to Hamp- 

" It's twenty years old now. Why not admit 
the truth ? " 

" I have told you the truth. Well, it doesn't 
matter. You exercised what you call your 
dominant will. You bullied her into- returning 
to you. You worked on her feelings, and finally, 
for the sake of the child Jessica, not for your 
sake or her own sake, she gave up the idea of 
divorce from you through me, and happiness 
with me — the way of escape which was open to 
her, and which I was prepared to give, though not 
in the heat of the moment when she was over^ 
wrought, but only when shfe could face it quite 
calmly. I did not induce her to run away with 
me. I did not wreck that which you call so 
foolishly your . married happiness, which never 

Fearon muttered something about " the old 
pack of lies." But he made no other answer. 

" Well, you know the end — she died." 

For a full minute Ormandy said nothing else. 
He let that fact sink in. Then, speaking very 
slowly, he began explaining that the rough-and- 
ready way of treating women does not mean 
understanding women. 

" Lucy Brooke was as sweet and beautiful a i<hi 
as ever lived. Your idea of understanding her 
killed her. That's blunt, but it's true. Love, 
kindness, gentleness, patience — things you do 
not understand — all these are needed by those 
who really understand women. Give them and 
you are given what a man like you is never 
given — knowledge of .the woman's soul, which is 
much more valuable than her body." 

" Don't talk sentiment. You and I are men." 

" Very different men, I hope." 

" Of course. I am the sort of man who makes 
a success of .life ; you, the sort which makes, at 
best, a sort of pleasant failure." 

" I am content to be ' a pleasant failure.' " 

" You did a lot of harm allowing her to talk 
nonsense to you. Surely you can see that ? " 

" I did no Lann. I am jiorry sometimes I did 




not act more strongly and secure her escape from 
you. The day she died I felt that I too had 
shared in the responsibility for her death. 1 
might have saved her." 

He spoke with feeling, which he did not trouble 
to conceal. 

" She died respected," said Fearon, coldly. 

" She might have lived happy." 

" You have very loose ideas about right and 
wrong. Probably your nephew has the same 

" Very likely he has. Quite a number of people 
believe nowa'days that love is the only true basis 
on which you can build marriage." 

" Well, I am not going to allow Jessica to 
marry a man brought up as you have brought up 
your nephew. It wouldn't be safe." 

There was a knock at the door. 

" Come in," said Fearon, and one of his house- 
maids entered. 

" I found this pinned on the pin-cushion on 
your dressing-table, sir. I don't know whether 
I am right in bringing it you. But I thought you 
might like to have it, before you went up to bed, 

" Thank you," said Fearon, curtly, and the 
girl went out. 

But Ormandy noticed that his hand, as he took 
the note, trembled. 

" Excuse me," he muttered, as he opened it. 

" My Dear Father, — I have decided to do 
the Burchester charities a good turn. I am 
going to marry a man who understands what to 
give a woman better than you do. I am sorry, 
but it rests with you whether I am still to 

" Your affectionate daughter, 

" Jessica." 

For a minute Fearon hesitated. 

" What a strange coincidence J " he said, 
looking up. " She also left a note for me on the 
pin-cushion on my dressing-table when she left 
me to go to you. Now Jessica has left this for 
me. Read it." 

Ormandy read it and handed it back. 

" What are you going to do ? " he asked, 
politely, rather than as if he were really interested. 

" What can I do ? " 

" Nothing." 

" You mean I must accept defeat ? " 

" I mean you have lost. You never had your 
wife's love. You are in a fair way to lose your 
daughter's. It all comes irom thinking you 
understand women so well, Fearon." 

Ormandy did not spare him. Why should he ? 
Fearon himself knew there was no reason why 
he should, and thought no les of him for not 
doing so. And then, suddenly, it occurred to 
Fearon that after all he had not been very suc- 
cessful in a very important thing in life, possibly 
the most important thing. 

" I must think what I ought to do," he said — 
a little unsteadily, Ormandy thought. 

" Which of our charities are most deserving ? " 

John Fearon drew himself up bravely. At 
least he could fight. 

by Google 

"Yes," he rapped out. "Exactly. How 
shall I divide up all this ? " 

He swept his arm round in a sort of half- 
circle, which was meant to imply all his worldly 

And presently he was alone, there in his library, 
Ormandy gone, Jessica gone, his wife dead and 
gone, his servants gone up to bed. He was quite 
alone there, free to think undisturbed all night if 
he so wished. 

Well, he was not the sort of man to waste 
time maundering about with silly thoughts. 
ThaCt was not the way in which he had built 
up his fortune, built his house and his glass- 
houses and laid out his grounds, bought his 
knighthood and all that. Once fairly in politics, 
he might rise to 

He stopped at that — knighthood, a baronetcy, 
a son 

Well, he had no son. He might have had a 

So Lucy had never loved him, had hated him, 
had always loved Ormandy 1 

What a tangle life is ! 

Lucy ! Well, nothing could alter the past. 
What point was there in thinking about it? 

He adjusted the light, sat down at his desk, 
took a clean sheet of pape{, and began to jot 
down the names of Burchester charities. 

He had been doing this for some time when 
something rather strange happened. He seemed 
to feel a touch on his right arm. He even looked 
up, so real did it seem. But of course he saw 
nothing. Still, such tricks does memory play, 
he immediately remembered an incident, twenjy 
years old, when, sitting at that very table, his wife 
had put a restraining touch upon his arm when he 
was in the act of signing certain documents 
which finally closed a rather sharp piece of 
dealing even for the screw and nail trade. He 
had been angry then. He was not angry now. 
What is the good of being angry when one is 
alone ? 

Lucy ! Well, that morning he had worshipped 
God. He supposed he believed in another 
world. Lucy was there, waiting. For him ? 
No, probably not* for him, but for Ormandy. 

Then he put down his pen and began to think — 
almost for the first time in his life, if the truth 
must be told — against himself. 

In the morning the housemaid, dusting the 

library, saw nothing in the waste-paper basket 

' except a few pieces of torn paper. With a 

housemaid's curiosity she idly pieced them 


" Burchester General Hospital — Burchester 
Hospital for Diseases of the Skin — Burchester 
Slum Improvement Society — Sedbury Park 
Church Christian Mission " 

She did not trouble further. 

" Not very interesting," she observed. 

But those torn pieces of paper were interesting. 
They indicated, possibly, the beginning of the 
salvation of John Fearon's soul. 

Original from 

The Hardest Bridge Problems. 

The series of problems published in our Christmas Number under the title of 
"The Hardest Bridge Problems " proved so popular with our readers that we 
now give another series selected by Mr. R. F, Foster, which we feel sure will 
be found equally entertaining. Solutions next month. 

x.— By R. C. Mankowski. 

Hearts— 5. 
Clubs— Queen. 
Diamonds — Knave, xo, 3. 
Spades — xo v 6, 2. 

Hearts-— King, knave. 
Clubs— 8. 

Diamonds— Ace, 8, 7, 
6, 5. 
Spades— None. 

Hearts— 4. 

Diamonds — Queen. 
Spades— Ace, queen, 
8, 4>3- 

Hearts— Queen, 8. 
Clubs — 9. 
Diamonds— None. 
Spades— King, knave, 9, 7, 5. 
No trumps. Z to lead. Y and Z to win four. 

4.— By Frank S. Bussf.r. 

Hearts— Ace, 4. 
Clubs — Knave, 7, 6. 
Diamonds — 4. 
Spades— 3. 

Hearts — 6, 2. 

Clubs— to, 9, 4. 
Diamonds — Ace, 7. 
Spades — None. 


Hearts— King, 5. 
Clubs— King, 8, 5. 
Diamonds — None.. 
Spades— King, 8. 

Hearts— 3. 

Clubs — Ace, queen, 3. 
Diamonds — 8. 
Spades — Ace, 7. 
No trumps. Z to lead. Y and Z to win five. 

a.— By Frank S. Busser. 

Hearts — Ace, 9, 3. 
Clubs — 10, 4, 3. 
Diamonds— None. 
Spades — Ace, 10. 

Hearts— None. 
Clubs— King, 7. 
Diamonds— King, A 

knave, 9, 8, 5. 
Spades— 9* 


Hearts— King, 6. 
Clubs— 9, 6, 5. 
Dia monds — None. 
Spades— King, knave, 

Hearts — 7. 
Clubs— Ace, 8, a. 
Diamonds — Ace, queen. 
Spades — Queen, 3, 
No trumps. Z to lead. Y and Z to win seven. 

5.— By R. C. Mankowski. 

Hearts— 8, 7, 6, 5. 
Clubs— 10. 
Diamonds— 6, 5. 
Spades— Knave. 

Hearts— Ace, to. 
Clubs— Queen. 4. 
Diamonds— K ing, 

queen, 8 
Spades— 7. 

Hearts— Queen. 
Clubs — None. 
Diamonds— 10. 
Spades • King, 10, 9, 
8, 6, 5. 

Hearts — None. 

Diamonds — Knave, 9, 4. 
Spades— Ace, queen, 4, 3. 
Clubs trumps. Z to lead. Y and Z to win three. 

3. — By Jay Rkp.d. 

Hearts — 6, 2. 
Crabs — None. 
Diamonds — Ace, 8, 2. 
Spades— King, queen. 

Hearts— 0, 4- 
Clubs — None. 
Diamonds— King, 7, 4. 
Spades— Ace, 8. 

Hearts — None. 
Clubs— Knave. 
Diamonds — Queen, 

9. °t 5- 
Spades— 4, 2. 

Hearts — Knave. 
Clubs— 8. 

Diamonds— Knave, 10, 3. 
Spades — 6, 3. 
No trumps. Z to lead. Y and Z to win 


6.— By Frank S. Busier. 

Hearts — Ace, king, 2. 
Clubs — 10, 7, 4, 2. 
Diamonds— 4. 
Spades— None. 

Hearts — None. 
Clubs -9, 8, 6, 5- 
Diamonds — Queen. 
Spades— Ace, 4, 3. 

No trumps. 

Hearts— Queen, 

knave, 9. 

Clubs — King, queen. 

Diamonds — King, 8, 


Spades— None. 

Hearts — 3. 

Clubs— Ace, knave, 3. 

Diamonds — Ace, 5. 

Spades— 6, 5. 

Z to lead. Y and Z to win seven. 






J. A. Shepherd. 

FOUR years arid a half of war has 
brought reports from war corre^ 
spondents everywhere : from the 
desolated towns and fields of Belgium 
and France, the inhospitable crags of the 
BaJkans, the parching deserts of Sinai 
and Mesopotamia, the icy shores of Russia, 
the poisonous forests of Africa, the lonely 
isles of Polynesia, and from the battered 
moving islands of the Navy. The 
home front has not been ngfetected. 

The following New 
Series of this popular 
feature by Mr. J, A. 
Shepherd, the grearest 
living artist of animal 
life, will be exhibited 
simultaneously M (he 
principal Cinemas 
throughout the country 
in animated form by 
Mr. Ernest H. Mills, 
controlled by Kine 
Komedy Kartoofis, 66, 
Shaftesbury Avenue* 





the tenacious fortitude of the strikers, whom 
no disaster to our arms could turn from 
their unswerving- pursuit of a bit more, and the 
women who were splendid, or at any rate as 
splendid as they could manage on five or six 
pounds a week, have all received their meed of 
praise, although perhaps not always done 
justice to, any more than the dogged tradesman 
who struggled desperately through on five 
■times liis usual profits. All the sufferings of 
these we have learned to know, but the Zoo- 
logical front seems to have been forgotten. 
Nevertheless, the effects of war were felt, and 
sadly felt, in the dug-outs and pi 11 -boxes of 
Regent's Park; and the casualty list has been 

Moved to repair the serious neglect of this 
part of the line! the commanding officer of The 
Strand Magazine dispatched the Artist on 
&xi urgent mission, with orders to report to the 
adjutant at the Zoo, in proper torni, standing 



Origffremai-F RviCE - 




MlSrER ? " 

! D-0<R*A/ 

at attention, heels to- 
gether, feet turned out 
at an angle of forty- 
five degrees, and a 
smart salute, 

Alas for the Artist's 
military ambitions, 
however, this warlike 
ope mug had to be cut ; 
for it was discovered 
that the adjutant (his 
immortal name was 
Billy) had become a 
casualty of war, and 
"no more would grace 
the parade of the stork 
enclosure with his mar- 
tinet strut, his more 
than Wellingtoni an 
beak, the tangerine on 
the back of his neck 
and the bagpipes in 


front of it, which had 
made part of his mar- 
tial panoply. Billy is 
gone, and not an ad- 
jutant stoiie remains* 
In Ms place mopes the 
most un military pes- 
simist imaginable — the 
marabou stork, a 
pimple - nosed, disre- 
putable old ragamuffin 
before whom any idea 
of a military salute is 
out of the question. 
The marabou shakes 
his head if you men- 
tion the war. He can't 
believe it is over, since 
Ms rations remain the 
same j doesn't believe it 
ever will be. He has 
his own view of those 




disreputable marabou has never 
seen human creatures do anything 

Lack of imagination, wastes 
many opportunities, and the 
grudgers of food at the Zoo 
never seem to have thought of 
adapting the exhibits to war- 
work instead of suppressing them. 
The giraffe* for instance, it is 
true, may consume food that 
could have been turned into milk 
by a properly skilled cow : but 
there is distribution also to con- 
sider, and what a getting up 
stairs and waste of human effort 
and shoe-leather might have been 
saved by giving the giraffe a 
milk-round in these days of 
many-floored fiats ! But. no — it 
never occurred to anybody to 
adapt the exhibits to the cir- 
cumstances of war, or even to 

GOT it I 

people who advocated closing the Zoo and eating 
ail the eatable tenants and stuffing the rest \ he 
cannot see why valuable food should be wasted 
on mere human creatures who have nothing 
to do in life but stare at birds ; for the 


feed a tiger with a profiteer. Instead ■ the 
society took in pigs and hens to board, and 
to make room for the new lodgers evicted and 
redistributed the lifelong tenants wholesale. 
In the enclosures where one was wont to Inok 

Ttf* fS: ** m * !s s*A 



THAT'S ^gJAfttflttPtl ALL I " 






P*£* .*v*^*t -*.A 



'what's that, mother?" 


for exotic birds of strange and gorgeous plumage lined, dot the landscape where their ponds lay 

one finds the label ** Domestic Fowl," and Rations of all sorts have been mighty scarce, 

where the rare and radiant birds of the tropics and, as though to rub it in, threatening notices 

ranged you see rabbits. The war has evicted the are posted, menacing with the Defence of the 

eleph ant-seal and his like, and shell-holes p cement- Realm Act any nefarious visitor who dares to 


"3-i^t+-*""-*- v ' h 

The Qdpft+sQ$f*r* 

in Eurap*- 







give Bread, Buns, 
or Biscuits to any 
Bird or Beast. It 
has been a sad 
four and half years 
for the elephants ; 
they affect not to 
see the notices, and 
still desperately 
beg of visitors, on 
the wild chance of 
finding somebody 
who can't read 
with a hoard of 
biscuits in his 
pocket. In peace 
time the elephant 
doesn't cadge ; he 
accepts contribu- 
tions — or he takes 
them uninvited — 
with a lordly con- 
descension that 
harmonizes with 


/ i 





his size and dignity* But 
in war lijrie, and hi the 
hard times that follow, 
the elephant's dignity and 
condescension go, and he 
becomes a seedy, urgent, 
and disappointed cadger. 
He will test the law- 
abiding ness of visitors* 
and when visitors fail, as 
they do, he will hunt 
humbly in odd corners for 
stray crumbs, turn over 
waste-paper baskets, and 
even descend to compe- 
tition with the esurient 

Altogether it must be 
a had time for elephants 

well 1 J 

>Ogl L ! 

Original fronv 




by Google 

Original from 



in Europe; it is even said that Kaiser 
William is regarded as a white elephant by 
neutral nations — at any rate, nobody wants 
him even for a show. And any attempt to show 
him at Regent's Park — well, the other elephants 
would know how to receive him — the cause of 
all the bun famine. 

He was the cause also — among many other 
horrors — of the death of Balaeniceps Rex, the 
only specimen of 
that queer bird, 
the shoebill, in 
Europe. The shoe- 
bill might have 
been first cousin 
to the dodo, and 
the tale of his ex- 
tinction here is a 
war tale and noth- 
ing else. Rations 
were bad, things 
generally looked 
glum, and the 
shoebill wasn't as 
young as he used 
to be. Still, he was 
struggling bravely 
along in poor 


representative and ambassador of his race, the 
admired and prized, was now " horrible," and a 
"terrible " item ! He staggered sadly back to 
his innermost den, and when the Artist inquired 
for him the next day he was dead ! 

But then the shoebill was a sensitive bird, 
and the sensitive, who brood never get through 
these bad times without trouble. Nobody could 
unwittingly insult an ostrich, for instance, and 

the ostrich who 
isn't too proud to 
seize any oppor- 
tunity thrives 
through anything, 
and eats every- 
thing that comes 
and anything he 
goes after, from a 
mouse or a black- 
beetle to a jack- 
knife. Conse- 
quently the os- 
trich is a success 
in life ; for suc- 
cess, and any- 
thing else, comes 
to him who goes 
after it. 


health, till his sensitive feelings received a final 
shock. A worried mother with her family about 
her, seeking some distraction from domestic cares 
in a walk through the Zoo, had her attention 
suddenly called to this queer bird, by the inter- 
ested squeals of her offspring : " What's that, 
mother ? " The seeker of relief from domestic 
problems gave a glance at the cage-label and 
there saw the ominous words " Shoe Bill " ! 
" Horrible ! "she exclaimed, turning away with a 
shudder. " Shoe Bill ! What a terrible item that 
is, these days ! " And only anxious to escape 
such painful suggestions she hurried her convoy 
off. But poor old Shoebill (the " Father of 
Shoes," as he is called in his native wilds) suc- 
cumbed to the shock to his pride. He, sole 

* The oldest inhabitant has survived the war, 
whether he be the tortoise or the parrot. There 
is great rivalry between the two for the honour, 
and although he is less noisy in pressing his 
claims, I am inclined to favour the claim of the 
tortoise. He can remember the time before 
the war. The parrot, on the other hand, like 
all the other parrots here, is proud of being up 
to date. " Pretty Polly " and such greetings 
have given way, since all the drilling in the park, 
to " Halt ! " " Form— fours ! " "About— turn ! " 
" Eyes — right ! " " Hurrump — oroo ! " and other 
military phrases. So that the discussion as to 
the real claims of the tortoise and the parrot 
was closured and the tortoise driven into hiding 
by a sudden scream of " Take cover 1 " 



by HRCreswell 





Illustrated fnr 

G. E. St-ucfdy. 

NCE upon £ 
time there 
was a little 

girl named f— | 

Marytary a 

who lived in a little house with 
her mother, and the house was 
at Bdton, near Rudbery. And there was a 
little boy called Johnny Peascod, who lived 
near to where Marytary lived, and he had his 
father ; but his father was old, I think; 
because .he did nothing but walk about very 
slowly. Now, Johnny and Marytary were great 
friends because they had not any brothers or 
sisters to play with. 

One day, when it was the spring and the 
hedges were just beginning to put out little 
green leaves that you can eat and call " bread 
and cheese " if you like (but I don't 1), Marytary 
and Rose, her nurse, started off for a walk ; and 
it was on Tuesday. It was not an ordinary 
walk, for they each carried a basket. They 
started quite early, directly after dinner, and 
they walked very fast, and you will not guess 
what they are going to do. Johnny was swinging 
on a gate, and when he saw them he wondered 
where they were going, so he shouted : — 

" Halloa, Marytary ! Where are you going? " 

" We are going to Marfield Woods," said 
Marytary, " to pick primroses ; and would you 
like to come ? " 

" No," said Johnny. " It's only girls who 
want to pick flowers. I don't want to." 

Now, this was rude of Johnny, so ftlarytary 
said, " All right, don't come ; but Rose is 
coming, and we are going to pick a lot of prim- 
roses and make them into nosegays ; and Rose is 
going to send them to her sister because she 
has a little long-clothes baby, and he is going to 
be christened." 

Marytary and Rose walked off, and Johnny 
went on swinging the gate. 

Then Mr. Craddock came into the field, and 
called out to Johnny to get off the gate, because 
he would break it ; so then Johnny ran off after 
Marytary, and I think he wanted to do so all 
the time, really, because he thought he would 
find some birds'-nests in the wood. So Marytary 
made friends with him, and after a long walk 
they came to Marfield Wood. 
• The wood is a very large wood. You can go 
right into it quite out of sight and there are 


very few paths, and you can- 
not see the end of the wood 
when you are inside ; so that 
C/ will show you how very big 

itj*eaUy is. They found lots 
of primroses, not growing in one place, but all 
scattered about, and so they became separated ; 
and Rose was far away from Marytary out of 
sight among the trees, and Marytary could not 
see her; and Johnny could not see Marytary 
either. It was quite still, except that the birds 
were chirping and singing. 

Now, you think this story is not at all exciting ; 
but it is terribly exciting, for suddenly the birds 
stopped singing, and you could hear them all 
fly away quietly through the tops of the trees ; 
and last of all a rabbit ran by close to Marytary, 
very fast; and just then, while Marytary was 
stooping to pick a primrose (and it was a pink 
one and very pretty), she saw something move a 
little way off, and she looked at it sidewayj, and 
it made her stay quite still, and she stopped 
picking the pretty primrose and did not move a 
finger ; and you would have done the same if 
you had been Marytary, I think, for the thing 
hat Marytary saw was a Real lion- walking 
through the wood, and he was exactly as far 
away from Marytary as one lamp-post is from 
the next. 

Now, of course, there are no lions or wild 
beasts in England, and the reason this lion was 
in the wood was that he had escaped from his 
cage at a circus and had hidden in the wood ; 
and perhaps he is a tame lion, but perhaps he 
is very savage, and he is nearly sure to be very 
hungry. What will Marytary do if the lion 
. sees her ? I am sure I don't know. 

But the Hon did not see Marytary because 
she kept quite still and did not move, and it was 
clever of her, and you ought to do the same if 
you ever see a Hon ; for if Marytary had moved, 
the lion might have caught sight of her and 
eaten her up, " Crunch ! Crunch ! " and no 
more Marytary after that. 

The Hon walked slowly along and gradually 
went far away among the trees, so that you 
could only just see his tail waving in the distance. 
Then Marytary stood 4ip — she was quite tired 
with stooping so long — and she looked quietly 
round her. Now, not far off there was a tall 
tree that was quite easy for Marytary to climb, 
because there were nice kittle branches sticking 




out on, each side like the steps of a ladder* So 
Marytary left her basket and stole away on 
tiptoe as quietly as she could, so that the lion 
should not hear her ; and he did not. She 
reached the tree and climbed right to the top of 
it, and she then looked out, but she could not 
see the lion because she could only see the tops 
of all the other trees. 

Presently she saw a very funny-looking bird 
in a tree a little way off, It was big, and had 
great black wings and a white tail, and Marytary 
wondered what it was ; and then it moved and 
there was a blue bow, and it was Rose's hat all 
the time, of course, and it was because Rose 

V&L ]viL— It 

had climbed to the top of another tree and 
Marytary could see her, So Marytary called 
out, " Here I am, Rose I " and Rose waved 
her hand to show she was there, too. 

Then Marytary saw the branches of another 

tree waving as though the wind was blowing 

them about, but there was no wind, and what 

could it be, do you think ? Just then Utile 

Johnny's head came poking up out oi the leaves > 

so it was really Johnny all the time, Marytary 

called out, " Halloa, Johnny ! " and Johnny 

waved his cap to show he was all right, but 

really and truly he had torn his knickerbockers. 

After that Marytary heard a funny noise, 

and she looked down, and it was the lion 

running about glaring up into the trees, 

and he did it because he had heard 

Marytary calling out. First he iound 

her basket and smelt it, but he did not 

like the scent of the flowers, and he 

sneezed and growled, and trod on the 

basket and broke it and made it quite 

flat, and it will show how big and 

heavy he was. 

Next he smelt all along the ground 
as far as the tree, and then he looked 
up and saw Marytary and showed all his 
teeth, and began to crouch like a cat 
that is going to spring* 

This made poor Marytary very 
frightened. She knew 
that lions cannot climb 
trees, but they can jump 
very high ; so she cried 
out, " Oh, Johnny, he is 
going to jump I M 

Then Johnny shouted, 
and teased the lion by 
calling out, " Chough 
choug- choug- choug 1 M 
j ust as you do to a pig ; 
and the lion heard him 
just as he was going to 
jump into Marytary 's 
tree, and he roared with 
rage and rushed to the 
tree where Johnny was 
and jumped right up 
the stem and clung on, 
and glared up at Johnny 
and snapped his teeth 
and snarled ; and that 
frightened Johnny, so 
no wonder he shouted 
to Marytary : — 

** Call him, Mary- 
tary I" 

So Marytary called 
1 ' Choug - choug'- choug- 
choug I " and the lion 
sprang down and came 
rushing to Marytary 's 
tree ; but before he 
reached her tree Johnny 
began calling him again, 
and he bounded back 
TdtPTi Johnny with eves 
i40N*s *os= wiT^j^^^^jf MTtifflKlfd a" ^ hair 



standing on end, so that 
he looked the most ter- 
rible monster you ever 

He was so angry with 
Johnny that he sprang 
into his tree again; but 
Johnny did not mind p 
now, because he knew 
the lion could not jump 
up as high as the place 
where he was \ so he 
teased him more and 
more, and laughed, and 
Marytary laughedtoo be- 
cause she heard Johnny 
and he did it so well, 
and this is what lie did, 

He tore off a long, 
thin branch, and when 
the lion was clinging to 
the trunk of the tree 
below him and glaring 
up at him he leant 
down and tickled his 
nose with the branch, 
saying all the time, 
" Choug -ehoug - choug- 
chou g t scrat c h - a - poll , 
pussy dear 1 " to make 
the Hon angry. The lion 

tried to catch the branch in his mouth, but 
Johnny snatched it away every time ; and at 
last the lion struck at the branch with his paw, 
but directly he let go with one paw his other 
paw slipped off the tree and he fell u thump 1 " 
on the ground- 
Johnny did this every time, till the lion was 
so angry he nearly went quite mad. He sprang 
high into the air, roaring and growling, and bit 
great splinters of wood out of the tree-trunk, 

Now, wliile this was going on, four men who 
were passing along the road by the side of the 
wood, on motor-bicycles, heard the roaring in 
the wood, so they stopped and listened, and 
said, " What's up ? J| m * A cat-fight, I don't 
think 1 " and M What price Sanger's circus ? w 
and lots of other things that men say ; and then 
they hurried into the wood to see what the 
noise was. 

Johnny spied them coming, and called out, 
" Go back I " But they would not go back, 
but came slowly on till they saw the lion a long 
way in front of them, sera telling away at his 
hole, with his mane standing out on end, hia 
tail Lashing from side to side, and the earth 
flying up in a shower behind him. 

They did not know what it was at first ; and 
then the lion saw them and stopped and stared 
at them, and they all turned and ran back to 
their bicycles as fast as they could, 

With one tremendous roar the lion sprang 
after them* He did not run ; he went in huge 
bounds faster than a racehorse, and if he had 
not hit the branch of a tree and fallen I am 
nearly sure he would have caught one of ffte 
motorists, because lie was a fat motorist and 
could not run so quickly as the others ran ; but, 


luckily, the Hon was just too late, and when he 
sprang over the hedge on to the road the men 
were ail riding away on their motor-bicycles. 
The lion bounded after them, hut they went 
too quickly for him and got right away, and 
the lion was quite out of breath at last, so then 
he went and lay down at the side of the road 
with-Jiis tongue hanging out, and panted. 

Very soon after a motor-car came round the 
corner. The lion gave one spring and jumped 
right on to the bonnet, which is the part in 
front of the glass screen; and his legs slipped 
down on each side of the bonnet, and he lay 
there panting and shewing his teeth and glaring 
through the glass at the man who was driving 
the motor-car, Now, this man was all alone; 
and he was quite a little, thin man and not a 
big, brave man at all ; and lie was dreadfully 
frightened to see the lion suddenly spring out 
on to Mm, and I am not surprised, and I feel 
sorry for him. for he was a nice, kind man with 
four little children safe at home, and his name 
was James Montague Pabslip, Esquire, F,R t LB. A., 
F.S.A. The only thing that prevented the lion 
from putting out his paw and scratching poor 
Mr* Pabslip was the glass screen, and the lion 
did put his paw on it, but the glass was cold 
and smooth and slippery, and it set the lion's 
teeth on edge and made him feel all shivery, so 
he did not do it again. 

Then Mr, Pabslip thought to himself, " I 
must be careful what I do, because if I am not 
careful the lion will eat me up, and then my 
four dear little cliildren will not have a daddy 
any more." 

So he made the car go very fast, and the lion 
put down his eats and Looked from side to side ; 





and it meant that he was frightened, far a lion 
is not used to being carried along backwards at 
the rate of thirty miles an hour. 

Then Mr. Pabslip thought, " It is all right so 
long as I go fast, because the lion is frightened ; 
bat ii I go slow, or stop, he will jump off, and 
then get into the car and eat me up/ J 

So he *went on and on, and the people he 
passed on the road stared ; and after he had 
gone by they said to one another, M Great 
Scot f did you see that fellow with a lion on his 
bonnet ? " 

But no one could do anything, and poor 
Mr, Pabslip knew he could not go on for ever 
■tad ever without stopping, and when he stopped 
the linn would be sure to eat him, Then at 
last he had a splendid idea. 

He turned quickly through the gates of a house 
where a lady lived whom he knew. Now, this 
entrance-road went round in a circle in front of 
the house , and Mr. Pabslip went round and 
round, so that though the motor-car was going 
fast all the time he was not going farther away, 
and he thought, '/ If someone conies, he can 
stand in the middle while I go round and round, 
and I can tell him to get a gun to shoot the lion.' 

So he went round and round in a circle in 
front o£ the house, and the gardener came to 
see why he was doing it, and he gave one look 
and then ran away home, and never stopped 
till he had locked the door and got under his 
bed* And the parlour-maid came to the door 
because she heard the motor-car going round 
and round, and when she saw the lion she ran 
away and put her apron over her head and 
hid in the cupboard under the stairs and did 
not have any tea. 

•Digitized by dOOgle 

Then Mrs. Blinch, the lady of the house, 
looked out of the window, and ft was getting 
dark, and she said to herself* " That man must 
be Mr, Pabslip, But why is he going round and 
round without stopping ? And what is that 
great bundle he has on his bonnet ? Oh, I do 
hope poor Mr, Pabslip, F.R.I. B, A., F.S.A., has 
not gone balmy in the crumpet/' and it means 
that you are mad, 

So she rang the bell again and again, but the 
parlour -maid would not come out of the cup- 
board, and at last Mrs* Blinch went down 
herself to see what was the matter, because 
Mr. Pabslip was rushing round and round and 
sounding his horn all the time, and it was getting 
quite dark. 

Mrs. Blinch opened the door, and the car 
rushed by, and Mr. Pabslip called out, u T«itp — " 

He was going so fast he had only time to say 
one word each time he went by the door. Tlie 
next time he came round he shouted :- — 

" • — -someone " (round again) - 

" -to ** (round again) 

" -fetch " (round again) 

" — gun." 

The next time he came past Mrs. Blinch 
shouted. " What?' 1 

Poor Mr. Pabslip was nearly in despair, but 
when he came by the door again he called out ;— 

" Lion J " 

Mrs. Blinch had not been able to see what it 
was that Mr* Pabslip had on his bonnet, because* 
it was dark and her eyesight was not very good, 
ami she had been attending to what Mr. Pabslip 
was saying ; but when she heard tha word 
" lion. " she took one look as the car came 
by, and then she rushed into the house, 




bolted the door, ran upstairs, jumped into bed 
without undressing, pulled the* clothes over her 
head, and shouted under the blankets; " Help ! 
Help ! Help I " but there was no one to hear 
her except the parlour-maid, and she did not 
hear because she was in the cupboard. 

Poor Mr. Pabslip went on rushing round and 
round in the dark. There was nothing else to 
be done ; he could not go out on to the roads 
again without any lights, and he could not 
stop and light the lamps for fear the lion would 
eat him up. 

Then he had another splendid idea. Ha, ha ! 
I feel nearly as glad as if it had, been Marytary 
and Johnny Peascod's idea. It was quite a 
simple idea, and he might have done it all the 
time quite easily. Now this was the idea, and 
he did it. 

There was a big, smooth lawn on one side 
with trees growing on it, and one of these trees 
had a long, thick branch growing out not very 
high above the lawn. Mr. Pabslip turned the 
car on to the lawn and rushed over the grass, 
and when he got under the tree he quickly 
shut off the gas that made the car work, and 
jumped on to the seat and caught hold of the 
branch, so that the car ran on, taking the lion 
with, it, and left him. hanging by his arms. He 
pulled himself up on to the branch and crawled 
into the tree, and then he listened. He could 
not see anything, for it was nearly quite dark, 
but he heard a gentle splashing sound a little 
way off, and the lion growling. 

Now this is what had happened. The car 
went a little way and then stopped, and the 
lion jumped off and tumbled into a pond where 
there were some goldfish ; but the goldfish did 
not mind, though the lion did not like it at ail, 
for a lion hates to get wet as much as a cat does. 
Then the lion went off growling to himself and 
shaking the water off his paws as he stepped, 
and he went quietly by secret ways in the 
darkness over the fields, and Mr. Pabslip watched 
him slink off, and then he smoked a pipe up in 
the tree, and then he got down and went and 
had supper with Mrs. Blinch, and he got quite 
happy again. At last he went home just in 
time to tell his four little children all about it 
while they were in bed. 

Now, where did the lion go ? I am sorry to 
say he was a horrid lion. He had been taken 
care of in a nice cage and given delicious bits 
of meat by kind people ever since he was a 
little cub, and no one had ever teased him, 
and he had been used to seeing little children 
and grown-up people who came to look at him 
in his cage and say what a beautiful lion he was ; 
yet directly he got loose he wanted to eat people 
and tear them up ! When he left the garden he 
stole off back to the wood to see if he could not 
get Marytary or Johnny, after all. But they 
had climbed down from the trees long before, 
of course, and were at home, and had had their 
tea, and Marytary was just going to bed, and 
Johnny was saying, "Only five minutes more," 
because he was making a picture of the lion, 
with Marytary up the tree ; and it was like the 
lion, but it was not like Marytary, really. 

Digiiized by ^OOgle 

So just when Hose was tucking Marytary up 
in bed the horrid lion was snuffing about under 
the tree where Marytary had been ; and just 
as she was going off to sleep the Hon had begun 
to sniff out the way she had gone home, like a 
" dog following a rabbit ; but he went very slowly, 
because, as he had been in a cage ever since he 
was a cub, he had not h&d any practice, and so 
he found it difficult to track Marytary, and that j 
is why it took him all night to find out the way 
that Marytary had gone when she went home. 

It was early in the morning, before anyone was 
up, and just as it was light, that the lion came 
to Marytary 's house and looted up at the windows 
and sniffed, and woldered which was the window 
of Marytary's room. Now, Marytary lived in 
quite a little house, and there were only two 
bedroom windows that looked out into the street, 
and I wonder whether the lion will choose the 
right one, or whether he will choose the other 
window, and that is the window of Mrs. Mary- 
tary's room. 


Marytary woke up suddenly, and was wide 
awake at once, and she heard bits of broken 
glass tinkling down on to the floor, and she 
looked, and there was the lion trying to get in 
through the window. Oh, dear f Oh, dear t 
The lion chose the right room after all, and poor 
Marytary was dreadfully frightened. She lay 
quite still and did not move at ail, and she 
thought to herself, " If the lion gets in, I will 
hold my breath, and then he will think I am 
dead, and he will not eat me " ; and it was a 
very good idea, I think. But the lion did not 
get in.- He had jumped up on the top of the 
window underneath Marytary's room, which 
stuck out a little into the street, and he had 
pushed his head through the glass, out he was 
so big he could not squeeze through the window, 
although he got his head in and his front paws, 
too. He growled at Marytary, but he could not 
get right in ; so at last Marytary jumped out 
of bed and ran into her mother's room. Her 
mother was asleep, so Marytary shook her, and 
she woke up and said : — 

" Go away, dear ; it is too early." 
* " The lion is trying to get in at my window," 
said Marytary. , 

" The lion ? " 

" Yes, mummy." 

" Oh, no, Marytary T you have had a dream — 
that is all. Go back to bed, dear." 

" No, mummy," said Marytary; " really and 
truly ! Can't you hear him growling ? " 

So Mrs. Marytary listened, but she could not 
hear him, because the lion had left off growling. 

" No, dear, it is a dream. Go back to bed." 
she said. 

But Marytary kept on telling her for ever so 
long, and at last her mother went with Marytary. 
She just peeped into Marytary's room, and 
there was the lion's head in the window, 90 she 
rushed back into her room, with Marytary,. and 
locked the door and jumped into bed and pulled 
the clothes over both their heads. 

They lay quite still for a Jong time, but it 
was very bet in the bed, and you could not 





hear anything, and at last Marytary put her 
head out. She heard people shoutings so she 
got out of bed and looked out of the window, 
and there were a lot of people in the street, 
and they were ali staring at the lion, but ready 
to run away if lie got down. 

Now, the lion could not get down because his 
head was stuck in the window-frame; and he 
could not get into the room either, so he was 
caught and Marytary told her mummy so. 

Then Marytary saw little Johnny Peascod out 
in the street, so she put on her mother's dressing- 
go wn and ran down and told Johnny the lion 
TOs stuck in the window ; and Johnny began to 
call, '* Choug-choug-choug-choug I " and that 
made the people in the street laugh, and the 
lion roared and struggled and tried to get down, 
but he could not pull his head out of the window ; 
and so he became quiet again. 

Now, Mrs. Marytary, when she knew that the 
lion could not move, felt very brave, and she 
called Jane and Rose, and said : — - 

"Don't be frightened, you two girls. Come 
here and look at him ; he is such a splendid 
creature. You need not have any fear if you 
come with me. ,r 

So they went into the room, and there was 
the lion* with his eyes half shut, for he felt 
very sad and miserable because he knew he was 
caught at lagfc and could not hurt anyone, and 
Mrs, Marytary said :— 

u You see he is quite quiet. Such a splendid 
animal I But he frightened Miss Marytary very 
much this morning," And she went into the 

room a very little way and held out her hand 
and flipped her fingers, and said : — 

" Here. then, old fellow, did urn was then I 
It was a pretty bird it am," ]ust as if she were 
talking .to a baby. 

Just then Johnny, who had borrowed a chair 
*from Mr, Lewis, reached up and caught hold of 
the lion's tail and pulled it hard, and the lion 
suddenly opened his mouth and showed all his 
teeth and roared, and poor Mrs, Marytary rushed 
back and jumped into her bed again and pulled 
the clothes over her head, and Rose and Jane 
ran away too, but it made them laugh, 

Then that naughty little johnny came running 
In with Marytary to look at the lion* because 
you could only see his back in the street ; and 
Mr. Beasley and Mr. Lewis and Mr. Day came 
too ; and when the lion saw Johnny he began 
to growl and show his teeth, and so Johnny 
wetted a towel and kept slapping him on the 
nose with it. and the lion roared again till 
the house shook, and stuck up its mane 
and looked terrible ; but Johnny did not 
care, and it made them all laugh, but it was 
naughty of Johnny to tease him ; though I 
am very glad he did it, because he was such a 
horrid lion. 

After that some men came with ropes, and 
they tied the lion's "legs together and they tied 
up his mouth, and then they tied a great pole 
all along his hack, and they cut the window- 
frame and lifted him into a cart and drove off 
with him, and he was put back into his cage, 
and that is the end oi the story- 



It does 

solve practically at 
perplexes many 
not necessarily indi- 

442.— THE FOUR 
Sometimes a person will 
the first glance a puzzle that 
others for hours, 
cate any special 
intelligence. In 
common parlance, 
it is " just a bit 
of luck.*' Various 
directions of 
thought were 
open to him and 
he happened to 
select the right 
one. Here is a 

little puzzle of the kind I have in mind. It is 
suggested to me by a correspondent, G. H. B. You 
may solve it immediately ;^ on the other hand, you 
may not. Take four pennies and arrange them on 
the table, without the assistance of another coin 
or any other means of measurement, so that when a 
fifth penny is produced it may be placed in exact 
contact with each of the four (without moivng them) 
in the manner shown in the illustration. The shaded 
circle represents the fifth pennv. If you trust to the 
eye alone, you will probably fail to get the four in 
correct position, but it can be done with absolute 
exactitude* How should you proceed ? I will give 
the puzzle in a little more difficult form later on* 

Atkins, Baldwin, and Clarke had to go a journey 
of fifty two miles across country. Atkins had a 
motor-bicycle with side-car for one passenger. How 
was he to teke one oi his companions a certain dis- 
tance, drop him on the read to walk the remainder 
of the way, and return to pick up the second friend, 
who, starting at the same time, was already walking 
on the road, so that they should all arrive at their 
destination at exactly the same time ? The motor-* 
bicycle cculd do twenty miles an hour, Baldwin could 
walk five miles an hour, and Clarke could walk four 
miles an hour. Of course, each went at his proper speed 
throughout and thece was no waiting. I might have 
complicated the problem by giving more passengers, but 
I have purposely made it easy, and all the distances 
are an exact number of miles— without fractions* 

HERE is a simple question. With how few straight 
lines can you make exactly one hundred squares? 
Thus, in the first diagram it will be found that with 
nine straight lines I have made twenty squares (twelve 
with sides of the length A B, six with sides A C, art! 

two with sides of 

the length AD). 
In the second 
diagram, although' 
I use one more 
line, I only get 
So, you see, every- 
thing depends on 
how the lines are 
drawn. Remember 
there must be ex- 
actly one hundred 
squares — neither 
jl- -— > more nor fewer. 

445~ A CHARADE. 
MY first once killed a queen to Jove inclined : 
My second on a beggar oft we find ; 
My third to readers and myself applies 
My whole's a vegetable that one buys. 


A correspondent sends me the following : " After 
LudendorfFs boastful account o£ the last German 
offensive a British officer at the Front received the 
following message from home > — 

" ' How his old Russian hat raises laughter, laughter 
rings out. Each his laughter over is all ears/ 

" Perhaps it was a prearranged code, or the message 
may have arrived in a mutilated state. How should 
it be read ? " 

The reference to mutilation suggests omissions, 
leaving something to be restored. Probably it will 
not take the reader long correctly to reconstruct the 

Solutions to Laat Montk's Puxxlcs. 

The smallest possible number is 36 matches. We 
can form triangle and square with 12 and 24 respec- 
tively, triangle and pentagon with 6 and 30, triangle 
and hexagon with 6 and 30, square and pentagon 
with 16 and 20, square and hexagon with 12 and 24* 
and pentagon and hexagon with 30 and 6. The pairs 
of numbers may be varied in. all .cases except the 
fourth and last. There cannot be fewer than 36. 
The triangle and hexagon require a number divisible 
by 3 ; the square and hexagon require an even number* 
Therefore the number must be divisible by 6, such as 
12, 18, 24, 30, 36, but this condition cannot be fulfilled 
for a pentagon and hexagon with fewer than 36 matches. 

If we multiply 497 by 2 we get the product, 994- 
If we add together 497 and 2 we get 499- The figures 
are the same in both cases. 

439.— MAKING A 


Tie a ribbon of 
paper into a sim» 
pie, ordinary knot 
and press flat, as 
shown in the illus- 
tration, and fold 
back at the dotted 
line. Then you have a regular pentagon, obtained 
with very little trouble. 

440.— A. THREE-MOVER. 

1. Kto B4 1. KtoKt3 

2. Q to R 7, etc. 

1. K to Bsq. or B 3 
2. R to R 7> etc. 


a I WW* M s 


17 VERY mother knows that healthy children are 
" happy children* Good health depends greatly 
on the condition of the teeth. First teeth well cared 
for mean good health and good teeth, not only now 
but in later life. Royal Vinolia Tooth Paste is the 
ideal dentifrice for the children. It keeps the teeth 
sound and white, while its antiseptic properties make 
the mouth and throat pure. Its pleasing taste and 
refreshing action make it the children's favourite. 
Tooth brush drill with Royal Vinolia Tooth Paste 
is a pleasure to the youngsters. 

In Tubes, 7*d. & 1/3. 

For ihost who prefer a dentifrice in powder form. Royal 

Vinolia Tooth Powder will be found equally delightful 

and beneficial. In lint, 6d. 4k //• 

by Google 

Original from 


Contents for March, 1919. 

The rights of translation and reproduction in the contents of this number are strictly reserved. 




How the Great War Play came to be written. 



The true story of a Secret Club of Duellists now revealed for 


LIFE AFTER DEATH. An Interview with Sir A. Conan Doyle. 







JOHNNYS BIRTHDAY. A Story for Children 





the first time 

h. de vere stacpoole 
hayden church ... 

edwin pugh 

floyd p. gibbons ... 
Hylton cleaver ... 

William Caine 

Paul legris 

h. b. creswell 
henry e. dudeney 





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(SBE PAGE 172 ) 



Vol. 57. 

MARCH, 1919. 

No. 339. 

'-Sfi Reprisals 


Author of According to orders"^ 

7 "^i^^^^^n. 

N the dusk of a winter afternoon 
a battalion of the French Con- 
tingent of the Army of Occu- 
pation dispersed to its billets 
in the little German village. 
The chef-de-bataillon and the 
m&dtcin-major, having installed 
.* ,, / their staffs in their respective 
bureaux, walked up the. street in starch of 
the quarters which had been chosen for 
tnem in the meanwhile. The scared faces of 
slatternly, women, obsequiously gesturing the 
mud-stained French soldiers into occupation of 
their cottages, turned to look anxiously at them 
as they passed, in evident apprehension of the 
order which should let loose a vengeful destruc-' 
tion only too probable to their uneasy con- 
sciences. Here and there a haggard-looking man, 
an ex-soldier, probably, slunk into his house, 
out of sight, but the native population of the 
village was preponderatingly feminine. The 
two officers—^-the commandant good-humoured" 
and inclined to rotundity, his eyes twinkling 
u nder brows a shade less grey than his moustache ; 
the doctor a middle-aged man, quiet, restrained 
to curtness in speech and expression, with eyes 
that swept sombrely and without interest over 
his en vironmeiit— ignored alike the false smiles 
and the genuinely alarmed glances of these wives 
and mothers of their once arrogant enemies. 

A captain came down the street towards them 
and saluted on near approach. : It was the 
adjutant of the battalion. He was young, and 
his natural cheerfulness was enhanced to per- 
petual high spirits in the enjoyment of the 
experiences following upon overwhelming victory. 
" We are well housed, mon Commandant." he 
said, joyously, with a flash of white teeth under 
his little brown moustache. " Not a chateau, it 

Vol lvil— 12. Copyright, 191 9, by 

is true— but large enough. The best in the 
village, in any case. Bedrooms for the three oi 
us, and a room for our mess. Our baggage is 
already in. and dinner will be ready in half an 
hour. Everything of the best, eh ? " 

He finished with his young laugh. 

The grey eyes of the battalion -commander 
twinkled at him. 

" And the patronne, Jordan ? Old and 

The young man's face lit up. He put one 
finger to his lips and blew an airy kiss. 

" Ah, mon Commandant ! " he replied, in a 
tone of assumed ecstasy. " You shall see her ! 
A pearl, a jewel — exquisite ! That is to say," 
he added, with a change of note, " she would be 
if r she were. not a Boche. One almost forgets it, 
to look at her. But, Boshe or not, she is young, 
she is beautiful, and, mon Commandant, rarest of 
all — she is intelligent I " 

The battalion-commander laid his hand on 
the young man's shoulder and drew him along 
with them as they resumed their momentarily 
interrupted progress. 

"I see I have to congratulate you upon 
another conquest," he said, with amused toler- 
ance. " He is incredible, notre cher Jordan, 
Delassus ! " he added with a smile to the doctor. 

"I don't say that," protested the young 
captain, with an affectation of modesty. "But 
we understand each other, and that is already 
much — although, unfortunately, she speaks no 
French and my German lacks vocabulary. But 
she made me understand that her husband was 
an officer killed in the war. ' Mann^—Offizier-* 
tot—Krieg: That's right, doctor, isn't it ? 
You are the linguist." 

The doctor nodded absent. 

"Quite correct. YVW should make rapid 




progress under an instructor so willing to impart 
interesting information," he said, dryly. 

The young man protested warmly against the 

" Your cynicism is out of place, doctor. I 
fasure you . She is timide — timide li ke a frightened 
bird. I extorted it from her. But you shall see 
for yourselves. Here we are ! " 

They were at the end of the village. The 
young captain led them through a carriage 
gateway, sadly in need of a coat of paint, up a 
weed-grown drive to a fairly large house that 
had once been white, but was now stained with 
the overflow of gutters long left out of repair. 
. A belt of trees hid it from the road. The main 
door, in the centre of the house with windows 
on both sides of it, was open, as if in expectation 
of them. Wisps of smoke from several of the. 
chimneys hinted at hospitality in preparation. 

As the three of them entered the hall, a young 
woman appeared on the threshold of one of the 
rooms communicating with it. Her natural 
slimness was emphasized by a gown of black, 
and this sombre garb threw into relief the fair 
hair which was massed heavily above her 
delicate features. It needed, perhaps, the youth- 
ful enthusiasm of the captain to call her beauti- 
ful ; but her appearance had something of 
fragile charm which conferred a distinction rare 
among German women. She stood there, a 
little drawn back from her first emergence, 
contemplating them with eyes that evidently 
sought to measure the potentiality for mischief 
in these forced guests. Her attitude appealed 
dumbly for protection, so forlorn and frail and 
timid was it as she shrank back in the doorway. 

" Introduce us, Jordan ! " whispered the 
battalion-commander to his subordinate. 

The young captain had lost a considerable 
amount of his assurance. • IJather flustered, he 
saluted and pointed to his superior. 

" Commandant I " Then, turning to the other, 
*' Doctor 1 " he blurted, clumsily. . 

Their hostess bowed slightly, with a pathetic 
little smile, as the two officers saluted. The 
doctor advanced a step. 

" Have no fear, gn&dige Frau" he said, 
politely, in German. " The war is over and 
France does not avenge itself upon women. No 
harm will come to you/' 

Her face lit up. 

11 Ach, you speak German! " 

" I studied in Germany in my youth, gnAdige 
Fran, and I have not quite forgotten the 

She smiled at him. 

" Assuredly 1 " Then, with a swift change 
of expression, she clutched imploringly at his 
arm. " You will protect me ? I am so alone and 
frightened I " She hesitated as though seeking 
a cognate circumstance in him that should 
compel his sympathy. " You are married ? " 

The polite smile went out of his face. His 
expression hardened. 

" I was, gn&dige Frau," he replied, curtly. 

She stared at him, divining that she had 
blundered upon some painful mystery. With 
feminine tact she steered quickly away from it 

into the region of safe commonplace. She threw 
open one of the doors teading into the hall. 

" Here, meine Herren, is the dining-room," she 
said, in a tone of colourless courtesy that con- 
trasted with her -emotion-charged voice of a 
moment before. " It is at your service for your 
meals. There," she pointed to a door at the 
other side of the hall, " is the salon — also at 
your service. I have had a fire lit in it. Your 
orderlies are now in the kitchen. I will send 
them to you to show you your rooms." She 
inclined her head slightly in sign of farewell, 
and passed out through a door at the end of 
the hall. 

The young captain looked at his commanding 

"Well, mon Commandant ? What did I 
tell you ? Is she not ? " 

His superior interrupted him, a twinkle in 
his eye. " ■ * 

"She is, my dear Jordan — but you have 
not a chance against the doctor here I " He 
.laughed, clapping the doctor on the back. 

The med&cin-majoY frowned. His ascetic 
features hardened again. 

" My dear Commandant, you do me too 
much honour," he said, coldly. " I assure 
you that there is* no living woman who can 
interest me." 

" Bah 1 " said the battalion-commander, a 
trifle fatuously. " You can't teach me ! 1 
am sure that something is going to happen 
between you and that woman. I can always 
feel that sort of thing in the air, like " — he 
hesitated for an illustration—'' like some people 
can see ghosts/' . 

The doctor looked him in the eyes. 

" Mon ' 'Commandant," he said, curtly, " if 
you could see ghosts you would not feel so 
sure." / 

] There was a moment of unpleasant silence. 
The captain broke it by shouting for the orderlies. 

The three officers were introduced to theii 
rooms and parted to perform their toilet before 
dinner. , 

The meal which followed in the rather over- 
furnished dining-room was overshadowed by 
the gloomy taciturnity of the doctor, who 
appeared still to resent the battalion-commander's 
suggestions of gallantry. Not all the sprightly 
sallies of the adjutant, nor the persistent bon- 
homie of the battalion-commander, resolutely 
ignoring any hostility between himself and the 
doctor, could bring a smile into that hard-set 
face with the sombre eyes. Their hostess did 
not appear again, and was not mentioned 
between them. When they had finished, the 
captain suggested that they should smoke 
their cigars in the salon. 

41 I feel I want to put my feet on the piano," 
he said, with a vague remembrance of a popular 
picture, " like the Boches at Versailles in 'seventy ! 
To infect our hostess's curtains with cigar- 
smoke is a poor compromise, but it is something ! 
Come along, gentlemen 1— let us indulge in 
hideous reprisals ! The Boche has devastated 
our homes — let us avenge ourselves by spoiling 
his curtains V r '; n ; ns | f rnrn 





The battalion -commander looked smilingly 
across to the doctor, 

" My dear Deiassus* are you for this policy 
oi reprisals ? " 

The doctor looked up as though startled out 
of a train of thought* 

* d Mon Commandant, it is a subject on which 
1 dare not let myself think," 

There was something so harsh in his tone 
that neither of his companions could continue 
their banter* Both, looked at the doctor. 
They knew little or nothing of his private life, 
for he had joined the battalion only just prior 
to the armistice; but evidently it contained 
a tragedy the memory of which they had unwit- 
tingly revived. Both maintained a respectful 
silenco for a few moments, Then the adjutant 
rose and went out of the room. He called out 

to them from the salon that a splendid fire 
awaited them, and the others rose from the 
table also. 

The battalion-commander laid his hand affec- 
tionately upon the doctor's shoulder* 

11 My dear fellow," he said. " forgive me if 
I have unconsciously wounded sacred senti- 

The doctor pressed the hand that was extended 
to him. They went together across the hall into 
the salon. 

A blazing wood-fire fitfully lit up a large room 
still without other means of illumination. Jordan 
explained that he bad sent an orderly for some 
caudles, as Madame had no petroleum for the 
1 amps . The bat talion-c m mander and the d octo r 
threw themselves luxuriously into deep arm- 
chairs on eithct-'HUjIfl ipfrrfmi fireplace and lit 




their cigars. In a few minutes, the orderly 
arrived with the candles. Jordan fitted them 
into two large candelabra on the mantelpiece 
and lit them. 

The eyes of all three officers roved around 
the apartment. It was, like the dining-room, 
rather overfurnished and was particularly rich 
in bric-&-brac of all kinds. It was, in fact, 
overcrowded with porcelain figures, small mirrors, 
pictures of moderate size, all sorts of valuable 
objects that in almost every case were of easily 
portable dimensions. This last attribute leaped 
simultaneously to the minds of two of them. 
/ " Mon Commandant/' began Jordan, in a 
humorously affected judicial tone, " I am 
penetrated by an unworthy suspicion 1" 

" French ! Nom d'un nom I " cried the 
battalion-commander. " Everything here. The 
collection of the burglar Boche officer ! Doctor ! 
You speak German ! Ask that woman I " 

Both were suddenly arrested by the attitude 
of the doctor. He was staring in a fixed fasci- 
nation at a small Buhl clock upon the mantel- 
piece. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, snatched 
down the clock, and gazed eagerly at the back 
of it. 

" Mon Dieu I " he cried. " This is mine / 
It comes from my house ! Look ! " 

He showed them an inscription on the back : — 

"A Jules, pour marquer les heures d'un amour 
qui ne cessera pas quand le temps mime cessera, 
de sa Marcelle." * 

He stared at them like a lunatic. " My 
wife ! " he cried. " My wife ! Oh, Marcelle, 
Marcelle, where are you ? Where are you ? " 

The others also had risen to their feet. A 
tense silence followed upon the wild cry. 

The battalion-commander touched the doctor's 

" Mon ami," he said, gently, "can we help 
you ? " 

The erstwhile sombre eyes of the doctor 
blazed down upon him, as though searching 
for a mortal enemy even in this friend. Then, 
with a distinctly apparent effort of will, the 
anguished man mastered himself. 

" listen ! " he said. " This clock was a 
present to me from my wife. It was a love- 
marriage, ours — we loved, she and I " 

He broke off, his eyes blazing again. Then, 
with a gesture of the hand as though he put 
that from him, he continued : " Before the 
war I was in practice at Cambrai. We lived 
out of the town — in a country house such as 
this. In August, 191 4, I was mobilized. They 
sent me to Lorraine. I left my wife at home, 
believing her to be safe. You know what 
happened. The enemy swept over that part 
of the country. Trench-warfare began and 
my home, all I cared for in the world — my 
wife — was in the German lines. I never saw 
her again. I could never get any news. I 
waited four desperate years--and then, when 
we advanced, I went to find my home. It 
simply did not exist — it was a heap of bricks 

• M To Jules, to mark the hours of a love which will not 
when Time itself shall cease, from his Marcelle." 

with a trench through it. My wife — j 
He pressed a hand over his eyes, 
once more at the clock. " Aid nof 
this — here I " 

Again there was a tense silence. The batta 
commander broke it at last. 

" Interrogate the woman," he said, briefly. 
" She must know something." 

" It is a pity her husband is dead," said the 
captain, with grim humour. " We could have 
the pleasure of condemning him by court 
martial, after he had confessed — whatever 
there is to confess." 

The doctor's face set hard. He replaced 
the clock on the mantelpiece and wrote a few 
words on a page of his notebook. 

" I am going to have the truth," he said, 
tearing out the page and folding it up, " Ring 
the bell, my dear Jordan." 

An orderly appeared. 

4t Take this to Madame," said the doctor, 
" at once." 

The orderly departed. The three men waited, 
two of them tingling with the excitement of 
this unexpected drama, the third standing 
with compressed lips and eyes that seemed to 
be frowning into a world which transcended 
this. He was certainly oblivious of his com- 
panions in the fixity of his thought. At last 
his lips moved. 

" Marcelle ! Marcelle ! " he murmured. " My 
love 1 I am going to know — and, if need be, 
to avenge ! " 

At that moment the door opened and the 
frail little figure of the German woman appeared 
upon the threshold. 

" Meine Herren ? " she said, in timid inquiry. 

The doctor looked up. His companions 
marvelled to see the expression of his face 
change to a smiling courtesy. But there was 
a glitter in the usually sombre eyes which 
spurred their hardly-repressed excitement. 

" Will you have the kindness to enter, gnfldige 
Frau ? " said the doctor. His voice was 
suave, but there was a note in it which his 
companions, although they did not understand 
the words, recognized as compelling. 

The German woman glanced at him appre- 
hensively, and obeyed. The doctor drew up 
an arm-chair for her, close to the fire. 

" Will you not seat yourself, gn&dige Frau ? " 
he asked, still in the suave voice with the under- 
tone of command. 

She inclined her head speechlessly and sat 
down. They noticed that her hands were 
trembling. The doctor motioned his com- 
panions to resume their seats. He himself 
remained standing, his back to the fireplace, 
his form hiding the clock on the mantelpiece 
from the eyes of the woman had she looked up. 
He smiled at her in a reassuring manner, as 
she waited dumbly for him to state the reason 
for his summons. 

4t We are very much interested in your collec- 
tion of porcelain, gnddigeFrau, " he said, smoothly. 
" It is French, is it not ? " 

A sudden expression of alarm flitted into her 
eyes, was banished. She nodded her head. 




I " J a > J a > ****** Herr/* she answered, hesi- 
■ .tatingly. She moistened her lips; Her hands 
J grippe^ each other tightly upon her lap. 

The battalion-commander and the captain 
observed her with a quickened interest. Despite 
their ignorance of German, the word " Porzellan " 
gave them the clue to their comrade's opening 

"It is the result of many years' gradual 
acquisition, I presume ? " he pursued, in a 
casual tone. 

She shot an upward glance at him from under 
her eyebrows ere she replied. 

" J a, mein Herr/' 

" It is well chosen," said the doctor. " I 
congratulate you on your knowledge and good 
taste. Perhaps you would explain some of 
the pieces to us — pieces I do not recognize ? " 

She looked up at him with wide and innocent 

" I cannot, mein Herr. I know nothing 
about porcelain. It was my husband's collec- 
tion. I keep it in memory of him." 

There was an accent of sincerity in the last 
phrase which drew a sharp glance from the 

" Ah," he said, quietly. " He was killed, 
was he not ? " 

Her eyes filled with tears, her mouth twitched. 

" Killed in one of the very last battles, mein 
Herr/' She drew a long, sobbing breath and 
looked wildly at him. " Ach, Gott ! do not 
remind me 1 do not remind me ! " she cried. . 
" He was all I had in the world — everything 
—everything ! You do not know how good 
and kind and loving he was ! And now he 
is gone — he will never come back — never — 
never ! And I loved him so ! " She broke 
down into sobs, hiding her face in her hands. 

The doctor waited until the crisis had sub- 
sided. A diagnosis of hysteria formed itself 
in his professional mind. 

" So you have no real interest in this collec- 
tion ? " he inquired. *' Would you sell it ? " 

M Ach, nein — neifi ! " she answered. " I 
keep it in memory of him, my Heinrich, who 
loved it so. I feel him here when I dust it 
and care for it." She looked wildly round the 
room. " I feel him here now ! " 

The doctor nodded his head in courteous 
assent to a possibility. 

" Did he inherit it ? " he asked, casually, 
as though merely pursuing a conversation which 
could not, in politeness, be allowed to cease 
on a note of distress. 

She shook her head. 

" Ah, he bought it ? " 

She moistened her lips nervously ere she 


" Before the war ? " 

Her face hardened as she answered again. 


There was a moment of silence, and then the 
doctor changed his position slightly before the 

" And this pretty clock ? " he asked, pointing 
to it. " Did he buy that also ? " 

by L^OOgle 

She stared at it and then nodded her head. 

" Ja t mein Herr," 

" So I — that is curious. I am particularly 
interested in that clock, gn&dige Frau. Can 
you remember where it was bought ? " 

She hesitated, ventured a scared glance at 
him, and obviously forced herself to speak. 
The two officers involuntarily bent forward 
in their interest. 

" No, mein Herr/* 

She glanced round as though seeking an 
opportunity for escape. 

The doctor repeated his question in a level 
tone of authority, his eyes fixed on her. 

" You are sure you cannot remember where 
that clock was bought, gnSLdige Frau ? " 

" Quite sure." Her breast was heaving. 
She half rose from her seat. " Why do you 
ask me all these questions ? Let me go ! Let 
me go I You have no right to question me 
like this ! I — I tell you it was bought — it 
was all bought ! " 

The doctor stepped forward with a quick 
movement, seized her wrist, and forced her 
back into her seat. 

" I beg of you ! " he said, in a voice that 
compelled obedience. 

She subsided, trembling in every limb. Her 
eyes followed his every movement with the 
fascinated attention of a frightened animal. 

The doctor came close to her, and from her 
point of view glanced up to the mantelpiece. 
Then, stepping back, he arranged the candles 
so that the face of the clock, seen from her 
position, was a disc of bright reflection. 

Without a word, but with a deliberation 
which awed even the watching officers by its 
inflexible though mysterious purpose, he turned 
to her once more and, with the gently firm 
touch of a medical man, posed her head so that 
she looked straight before her. Paralyzed under 
his masterful dominance, she submitted plas- 
tically. She was too frightened to utter a sound. 
Only her eyes widened as she saw him produce a 
heavy revolver. 

" Now, gntidige Frau" he said, and his voice, 
though passionless, was intense in its expression 
of level will-power, " do not move your head ! 
Look up — under your eyebrows. You see that 
clock ? Look at it — continue to look at it I If 
you take your eyes off it for one fraction of a 
second I shall shoot you dead ! You are looking 
at it ? It marks a quarter to eight. When it 
strikes eight you will tell me quite truthfully 
how you came by it 1 " 

He ceased. The young woman, her face white 
with terror, her mouth twitching, her nostrils 
distended, sat motionless, staring up under her 
eyebrows at the face of the clock. 

There was a dead silence in the room. The 
minutes passed. The young woman did not 
move a muscle. Her wide-open eyes fixed on 
the clock, she seemed to stiffen into a cataleptic 

The doctor put aside his revolver. He 
approached her, took one of her wrists, and 
lifted her hand from her lap. It lay limply in 

Original from 




** You are feeling sleepy." he said, in his level, 
positive voice* " You arc going to sleep. My 
voice is sounding muffled and far away — but 
you will still hear it. You are losing the sense 
of your surroundings— but you still see that 
clock- face, You cannot help but see it. And 
when it strikes eight you are going to tell the 
truth," He dropped the hand, which fell life- 
lessly again upon her lap* 

The young vveman sat motionless as a statue. 
Her breathing changed to the deep respirations 
of sleep, although her eyes remained wide open. 

The clock struck eight. At the last of its thin, 
silvery notes the young woman shuddered. Her 
lips moved. 

"My husband sent it to me," she said, in a 
toneless, dreamy voice. 

" When ? " asked the doctor, 

" In ror 5 ." 

" From whence ? " 

" From the Front/' 

" Do you know the place ? " 

" No. JJ 

" You are quite sure ? " 

" Quite sure/' 

by Google 

"And all these other things ? " 

" My husband sent them to me." 

i( From Fiance ? " 

4t Yes," 

" How did he become possessed of them ? w * 

" He took them out of houses." 

There was a pause, in which the young woman 
did not move in the slightest. She appeared like 
some oracular statue waiting for the next 

" Why did you lie to me ? " asked the doctor, 
in his level voice. 

" Because you would have thought my husband 
a thief > and I am so proud of him." 

" Can you be proud of him. knowing that he 
was a thief ? " 

" Yes, 11 came the dreamy answer. " It was 
not his crime. He sent these things to nie 
because I asked him for them, and he loved me." 

" You asked him to send you these things ? 
Why ? " 

" Because all the other officers 1 wives were 
having things sent to them." 

"Sol Your husband would not have taken 
them if you had not asked for them ? " 




" No. He only took them to give me pleasure. 
He never thought of anybody but me. That is why 
I love him so — why I shall always love him." 

The doctor bit his lip, and hesitated for a 

" You do not think your husband would have 
offered violence to a woman in the house where 
he got this clock ? " 

" No. He loved me too much. He never 
thought of any woman but me. I am sure of 
it. He was an ideal man, my Heinrich — always 
gentle, always loving, always faithful." She 
paused a moment before continuing. "It is 
cruel of you to make me realiafr how much 1 
love him ! " 

The doctor stood over her, contemplating her, 
frig brows wrinkled in a puzzled frown. His 
comrades looked at him inquiringly. He ignored 
ttiem. The young woman, having ceased to 
speak, remained motionless and upright on her 
chair. The only sound in the room was the 
ticking of the clock. 

Suddenly the doctor's brows cleared in an 
evident decision. He lifted the young woman's 
hand again as he spoke in his level positive 
voice. His face was very grave. 

" You are asleep. But you are going into a 
very much deeper sleep — a sleep so profound 
that it takes you far out of this time and place. 
Nevertheless, you will remain in touch with me, 
and you will hear my voice. But everything 
else is going from you . You are now released from 
the limitations of this body. You are on a plane 
from which you can enter into any time and 
place that I shall command." 

He dropped her hand and, with his finger-tips, 
closed the lids over her eyes. Her body still 
remained upright in its trance-like rigidity. 

" What do you see ? " he asked. 

" Nothing," came the dreary answer. 

" Where are you ? " 

" I do not know. I — I am nowhere, I think," 
she said, with hesitation. " I — I — oh, do not 
keep me like this 1 " There was a new note of 
anxiety in her voice. 

" Wait a moment," said the doctor. He 
turned to the mantelpiece, took down the clock, 
placed it on her lap, and clasped her hands 
about it. 

"Now," he said, in his quiet, tense tones. 
" You are in touch with that clock. I want 
you to go into the time and place when that 
clock had another owner — before your husband 
had it. Focus yourself upon it. Go into the 
room where it stands." 

The young woman's eyelids twitched flicker- 
ingly, but otherwise her rigid attitude was 

" Yes." she said, in a slow and doubtful 
tone. " Yes." 

" What do you see ? " asked the doctor. 
His lips compressed themselves firmly after 
the words, the muscles of his lean jaw stood 
out, in the intense effort of his will to keep 
his emotion under control, to avoid an uncon- 
scious suggestion of ideas. 

" I see a salon,'* said the young woman, 
dreamily, "a salon with French windows 

by LiOOgle 

opening on to a lawn. There is a grand piano 
in it — and a young woman seated at 'the piano. 
She is dark — young — oh, she is very beautiful ! 
She keeps on looking at the clock — the clock 
is on the mantelpiece between two bronze 
statuettes. She is expecting somebody " 

" Yes ? " said the doctor, crouching over 
her, his fists clenched in a spasm of supremely- 
willed self-control, his breath corning in the 
quick gagps enforced by that tumultuous 
beating of the heart he could not command. 
" Yes ?— Go on ! " 

" She hears a footstep— she jumps up from 
the piano. . A man comes into the room — a 
civilian. She throws her arms about him and 
kisses him. She leads h'm across to the mantel- 
piece and takes up the clock. She puts it into 
his hands — she is showing him something on 
the back of it, something written ! They kiss 
again. They are in love these two — how she 
loves him ! I can feel that — I can feel her love 
vibrating in me ! " She paused, dreamily: 
" I know what real love is — and she loves him 
like that -" 

" The man ? " asked the doctor, his eyes 
wild. " The man ? — describe him I " 

" His back is turned tome — I cannot see his 
face — — Ah, he turns round. The man is — 

The doctor looked as though he were going 
to collapse. His companions watched him, 
fascinated, completely mystified, trying to 
guess at the drama their ignorance of the lan- 
guage hid from them. He mastered himself 
with a mighty effort. 

" Yes," he said. " You have the place right 
— but not the time. Go on a year — more than 
a year ! Go on to the time when this clock 
passed out of that woman's possession ! " 

" More than a year ! " she repeated, dreamily. 

" I — I must sleep— I cannot " She was 

silent for a few moments. " Yes — yes — I see 
the room again. The young woman is in it. 
She is seated at a little table — writing. She 
looks up — oh, how sad and pale she is ! — but 
she is still very beautiful. I am so sorry for 
her — she is so unhappy — and she is still in love, 
I can still feel it vibrating in me. She is picking 
up a photograph — she kisses it — it is yours ! 
— she kisses it again and again. Why are you 
not with her ? I feel that you are a great 
distance off — she does not know where you are. 
That worries her, because she loves you so." 
She stopped. 

"Go on," said the doctor, sternly. "What 
do you see next ? " 

" She puts away her writing hurriedly. She 
is frightened of something — someone is coming, 
I think — yes ! The door opens — a soldier — 
no, a German officer I Oh, she is frightened of 
him, but she is brave ! She stands up as he 
comes towards her. She draws back from him 
— he is between her and the door. He puts 
out his hands, tries to hold her — Ach ! " — her 
voice rose to a scream — " it is Heinrich / " 

"Go on ! " commanded the doctor. " Go 
on ! What do you see ? " His voice was 
terrible in its inexorability. 


1 7 2 


" Oh, no, no!" she wlrimpered* " No ! 
Don't make me see 1 Don't make me see ! 
I don't want to — I don't want to- -Ach. Htm 
rich, Heinrich f " Her voice came on a note 
of anguish, " I cannot bear it 1 " 

The doctor frowned at the rigid figure with 
closed eyes that began to sway slightly to and 
fro upon its chair- Her face was drawn with 
a suffering beyond expression. 

" Sec 1 " lie commanded. 4 * And tell mc 
what you see I " 

" Gh I" she moaned ; " yuu are cruel — cruel ! 
I do not want to see ! I do not want to look ! 

" Yon must I H 

44 Oh ! " Evidently she surrendered help- 
lessly. She commenced in a fatigued, dreary 
voice* (< They are there together — the two of 
them ! That beautiful woman— oh, I hate 
her now, I hate her \~Ach, Heinrich, have you 
forgotten me ? " It was as if she called to him 
"He does not hear me. 
His eyes are fixed on 
the woman/' She con- 
tinued in short, panting 
sentences uttered with in- 
creasing liorror. " She is 
retreating from him - 
farther and farther back. 
He is following her. Oh. 
something terrible is going 
to happen — it is in the 
air — X feel it — something 
horrible !— What ?— Ah, he 
is trying to kiss het ! My 
Heinrich ! Oh, how dread- 
ful, how dreadful ! — Oh, 
don't make me see any 
more — don't make me see- 
any more ! — He has got 
her in his arms — she is 
struggling. Oh, I can't 
look — I will not look 1— 
Oh, Heinrich, and I loved 
you so ! " Her voice fell 
from the scream of a night- 
mare to a plaintive moan- 
ing. "Oh, no more — no 
more I I can bear no 
more ! " 

u Look !— Look to the 
very end I " 

The doctor's comrades 
shuddered at his aspect 
as he crouched over her, 
seeming as though he were 
trying to peer with her 
eyes into some scene of 
horror they could not even imagine. 

The young woman's face was a mask of 

J ' Oh, you torture me/' she moaned, " you 
torture me — I see p and I do not want to sw- 
ob, I do not want to see " 

M What do you see ? " 

" They are struggling together— she fights 
desperately —what a wild cat she is I He is 
pinning her arms to her sides with liis embrace 

she throws her head back, back, to escape 


by GoOgK 

him. Ah 1 She has broken away I She runs 
to the table. What is she going to do ?" The 
seers voice rose in acute alarm, " Ach t a 
revolver ! Oh, no, no \ ** The ejaculation was 
a vehement and agonized protest, " Hein- 
rich f Oh, leave her — leave her 1 No, he laughs 
at her as he follows — and she is so desperate. 
Ah, lie has got her up in a corner — he has seized 
her again — she is crying out— it is a name — 
she cries it again and again— — " 
" What name ? M 

" I hear it I Jules 1 — Jules t — that is it — 
Jules ! Oh, what a tone of despair I " 

The doctor dosed his eyes and swayed. Then, 
mastering himself with a subhuman effort, 
he said, hoarsely v — 

" Go on 1— to the end I " 
" I cannot see plainly — they are struggling 
still. Ach ! the revolver! She has fired! 
I flee the thin smoke in the air. What has 
happened ? He has her 
in his arms— he stumbles 
with her. Ach, she U 
dead ! She has shot her- 
self* He stretches her 
out on the floor — he is 
bending over her. Ach, 
Heinrich, Heinrich, you 
have broken my heart I " 
She wailed as if from the 
depths of a wretchedness 
beyond all solace- "You 
have killed my love for 
ever ! I hate you I I hate 
you I I sliall hate you as long 
as I live— I hate myself for 
havinft loved you ! Faith- 
less, despicable brute I " 

She finished in a tone of 
fierce vindictiveness, a re- 
sentment, at once horrified 
and implacable* of unfor- 
givable wrong. 

But the doctor no longer 
heeded her. Hands to his 
brow, eyes closed, he reeled 
away from her, 

' ' Mon DU*i ! Mvn Diet tl" 
he groaned- "Ma reel le, Mar- 
ceile! How shall I avenge 
you ? " 

lie glanced at the now 
hek : il<mt and s^ 1 T W d figure 
her of tne y*>uag woman Tears 
SAT were trickling down her 
cheeks from the closed 
eyes- Her trance was un- 
broken. She sat still nursing the clock. 

Then, with a deep breath, he drew himself 
erect. The jaw that expressed his powerful will 
set hard again. His two companions looked 
with horror upon the dreadful pallor of that 
face from which two fierce eyes blazed. A little 
laugh broke from him. It was a sickeninp 
mockery of mirth. 

" Mex amis ! " he said. " You asked me a 
little time ago what I thought of the policy of 
reprisals. 1 iisk you that question now, Thitt 




young woman, in a hypnotic trance, has just 
described to me, as though she had seen it acted 
before her eyes, the suicide of my wife. She 
killed herself rather than be outraged by that 
woman's husband. In her waking life the young 
woman is, of course, totally ignorant of the 
event. In her waking life she adores the memory 
of her dead husband as of a perfect and faithful 
lover. Now, in her hypnotic state, she loathes 
him — her love has turned to bitter, jealous 
hatred. She despises him. In fact, she feels 
towards him just as she would have felt had she 
witnessed the scene that destroyed my life's 
happiness. It rests with me to call her back to 
waking life, totally ignorant of her husband's 
crime, adoring him as before — or to leave her in 
an agony of shattered love. Virtually, her 
husband murdered my wife. Her memory of 
him is the only thing that I can touch. Shall I 
leave it sacred ? Or shall I, justly, kill it ? 
What do you say ? It is a pretty little problem 
in reprisals for you 1 " 

His comrades stared at him in horrified 

" But," cried the battalion-commander, " are 

you sure ? " 

" Look at her ! " replied the doctor. 

The young woman still sat rigidly upright. 
Her face was drawn with anguish. Heavy tears 
rolled ceaselessly from under the closed eyelids. 
She sobbed quietly in a far-off kind of way that 
was nevertheless eloquent of an immense despair. 

" She sees what happened ? " queried the 
captain, in an incredulous and puzzled. tone. 

" Three years ago. She is looking at it now," 
asserted the doctor. " She sees her husband 
bending over my dead wife. Come, messieurs, 
let me have your verdict ! " He seemed to be 
experiencing a grim, unhuraan enjoyment at 
their evident recoil from the terrible problem 
he offered them. " I must wake her soon ! " 

" And if she wakes — knowing ? " faltered 

the captain. 

" She will probably kill herself. She has been 
living in an intense love for the idealized memory 
of her husband. The revulsion will be over- 

The battalion-commander interposed. 

" But, mon cher — a suicide — that goes be- 
yond " 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 

" Her husband drove my wife to suicide." 

" It is terribly logical," murmured the young 
captain, " but " — he glanced at the uncon- 
scious figure in its mysterious and awful grief — 
" one needs to be God to indulge in logic to that 

" And yet we are but men," said the doctor, 
" and the problem is there before us — must be 
solved at once ! In my place, what would you 
do ? " 

The battalion-commander rose. He went up 
to his comrade and looked him in the eyes. 

" Mon chet'* he said, solemnly, " God forbid 
that I should ever be in your place I I do not 

The doctor turned to the young man. There 
was a. terrible smile on his lips. 

by Google 

" And you, mon cher Jordan ? " 

The captain rose also. He also read the hell 
in the doctor's eyes. He shook his head and 

" Mon ami," he replied, " I should go mad." 

The doctor nodded grimly. 

" The terrible thing is that I cannot go mad," 
he said. " I am still sane. So you both decline 
the problem ? " 

The two officers shook their heads, not trust- 
ing themselves to speech. 

The doctor turned away from them and 
covered his face with berth hands. He reeled 
to the mantelpiece, leaned against it. They 
saw his body shake in the intensity of the mervous 
crisis which swept oyer him. 

" Marcelle ! " he cried. " Marcelle ! If you 
are a living spirit, counsel me ! Shall I avenge ? " 

The watchers turned to the entranced woman 
as though involuntarily expecting a reply through 
her from that mysterious region where her soul 
was in touch with the long-past tragedy she had 
revealed. She still wept silently in that awful 
sleep which was no sleep. But no word passed 
her lips. Only the clock she held upon her lap 
struck one silvery note, marking the half-hour. 

At the sound the doctor turned from the 
fireplace and took up the clock. He gazed, with 
a passionate intensity, upon the inscription on 
the back. 

" Marcelle ! " he murmured. " Our love 
ceases not when Time itself shall cease ! Though 
you are dead, that still lives — that was not 
murdered ! I understand, my beloved, I under- 
stand ! " 

He put the clock gently upon the mantelpiece^ 
and turned once more to the rigid, waiting figure. 
His comrades watched him, spell-bound, keying 
themselves to deduce his decision from the tone 
of his voice when he should speak. His stern 
face was set in an unfaltering resolve they 
could not penetrate. He lifted her hand. 

" Gn&dige Frau," he said, and the level 
passionless voice gave no hint to those ignorant 
of the language of the purport of the German 
words which followed, " when you wake from 
this sleep you will entirely forget the hideous 
dream through which you have passed. You 
will never remember it. waking or asleep. You 
will think of your husband as you have always 
thought of him — faithful and loving. You will 
completely resume your normal life. You will 
not even be aware that you have slept. It will 
seem to you as if you had only just sat down in 
this chair. But when you wake you will present 
me with the clock upon the mantelpiece. You 
will feel an overmastering impulse to do this, 
and you will obey it.^Now," he wiped the tears 
from her face and blew sharply upon her closed 
eyelids, " wake ! " 

The two officers watched her, fascinated. 
Would she shriek ? What terrible paroxysm 
would be the expression of a heartbroken 

despair ? Or had he ? They held their 


Her eyelids flickered for a moment, and then, 
with one deep sigh, her eyes opened. She 
smiled round on them. 




" Meine Jferren ? " she said, in her voice 
of timid inquiry. Then, fixing her eyes on the 
doctor, " You sent for me ? ■" 

The doctor looked at her gravely. 

" The Commandant desired me to assure you, 
gnadige Frau, that you need be under no appre- 
hensions during our stay here. We consider 
ourselves the guests of a charming lady and 
we hope to leave only a pleasant memory 
behind us." 

His companions marvelled at the strength 
of will which could enforce so complete a nor* 
mality of voice and feature. 

The German woman smiled up at him, a 
pathetic little smile. 

" You are very kind, Herr Doctor — please 
convey my thanks to the Commandant." She 
made a little movement which drew attention 
to her black dress. " My — my husband in 
Heaven, if he can see you, will — will bless you/' 
Her eyes filled with tears. " Please excuse me ! " 
she said, with a pretty little gesture of apology. 
" His memory is -all I have — I cannot help 
bringing him into every act of my life." 

" Love need not cease with death, gnadige 
Frau t " replied the doctor. " One hopes that 
those we love still watch over us — though we 
cannot see them." 

She smiled again. 

" He had no thought but of me, Herr Doctor, 
and I have none but of him — I see you under- 
stand," she finished, in a tone of involuntary 
sympathy. " You also have loved ? " 

" Ja t gnadige Fran," he replied, with a grave 
and enigmatic smile. " I also." 

Her eyes went past him to the mantelpiece, 
rested with a curiously fixed expressipn on the 
clock. Suddenly, as though moved by an 
uncontrollable impulse, she jumped up, took 
the clock from the mantelpiece, and thrust it 
into the doctor's hands. 

" Please accept this I " she said, appealingly. 

The doctor fixed his grave eyes upon her. 

"Why?" he asked. 

She stammered, evidently at a loss for her 

" Because — because I want you to have it 
— because I feel, I do not know why, that you 

have protected me from something " She 

stopped, puzzled by her own words. " That 
is absurd, I know ! " she exclaimed. *' But it 
belonged to two lovers, Herr Doctor — you, 
who understand love, will value it, I know. I 
— I feel you ought to have it ! " 

She left him standing with it. Then she 
turned to the other officers with her appealing 
little smile and bowed slightly in farewell. 

" Gute Nacht, meine Herr en ! " she said, and 
went out of the room. 

The doctor stared after her, his face deathly 
white. Suddenly his body broke and crumpled. 
He sank down to his knees by one of the chairs, 
still clasping the clock in his hands. 

" Marcelle ! " he cried, his head bowed over 
his recovered love-token, his body shaking. 
" Marcelle I Have I done right ?— have I done 
right ? " 

The battalion-commander touched his sub- 
ordinate on the shoulder. Both tip-toed silently 
out of the room. 



Narrative verse upon one Bide we see, 
And on the other lyric elegy. 

1. M «ery, boredom, utter discontent — 
The word U borrowed from the continent. 

2. A hill bereft of final letter vxw : 
Thinking of metals— lead or zinc might do. 

3. Mine. mias. all mine ! But still 'tis only fair 
To say that you may also have a share. 

4. A fore'gn seaport: any resident 

Dwelling herein will know that this is meant. 

5. " Laughter " conveys a hint of what is near, 
And what the lady has is not sincere. 

6. The th r rd of three. Another name he bore, 
That of a k ng two centur es before. 

7. Rd'ng and driving, both supply a kev ; 
And wh te the horses surely ought to be. 

8. The first should quickly brinsj to mind his name, 
A city still commemorates his fame. 

9. Here Youth among the flowers passed happy day 
Till wicked uncle had his cruel way. 

10. A writer had two names ; this was the first. 
King Louis was the other one reversed. PAX 

Answers to Acrostic No. 60 should be addressed to the 
Acrostic Editor, The Strand Magazine, Southampton 
Street, Strand, London, ff\C2, and must arrive not later 
than by the first post on March 1 Ith. 

Two answers may be sent to every light. 

It is essential that solvers, with their answers to this 
acrostic, should send also their real names and addresses. 

Answer to No. 59. 

). D re* M 

2. A d O 

3. R easo N 

4. WeathercocK 
6. I nan E 
6. N o s e g a Y 

by Google 

Answer to No. 58. 

1. A c t i u M 

2. N a u s i c a A 

3. C a nee R 

4. I I 

5. £ mde N 

6. N octurn E 

7. T am a R 
Notb.— Light ?. Odysseus. Note.— light 3. Re a son. 

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Original from 


Hie cfieat Vfeor Fl^ 
came to* be written. 


the name alone is sufficient 
to conjure up possibilities of 
romance and adventure and 
the fascination that inevitably 
attaches to the unknown and 
half -denned. Weave such a 
play around those three im- 
mortal Baimsfather creations. Old Bill, Bert, 
and Ali, add clever dialogue, a touch of sentiment 
and occasional shafts of wit, and trenchant 
philosophy which reveals more than anything 
else the keen insight and human sympathy 
underlying the author's jocular spirit, and you 
nave summed up the main factors which have 
made " The Better r Ole " the most successful 
war-play of its day. 

After it started on its eventful career at the 
Oxford Theatre, on August 4th , 1917, " The 
Bettor 'Ole " was played twice daily, for 
fifteen months without a break, before London 
audiences. At the same time it toured the 
provinces of England, and is still doing so, 
meeting everywhere with instant success. On 
October loth of last year " The Better 'Olc '* 

Digitized by OOOQ lC 

was acted for the first time before an American 
audience at the Greenwich Village Theatre^ New 
York. Since then, owing to the unanimous 
praise of critics, plus crowded audiences, it has 
been moved to a Broadway Theatre, where it 
seems "dug in" to the extent of fulfilling the 
prophecy of a two years' run made on the 
opening night by one of New York's leading 
theatrical managers. Old Bill is not satisfied 
with this, though, and audiences in Canada and 
Australia, at this moment, are listening to his 
stentorian greeting of " Ullo " and wondering 
why Maggie doesn't exert her wifely influence to 
the extent of making him curtail the length of 
his moustache, just as audiences throughout 
India no doubt did when he was in those parts. 
Old Bill and his boon com pan ions, Bert and A if, 
wi]l complete their world -tour with a visit to 
South Africa, by which time they will have 
appeared before audiences in nearly every part 
of the world— Middle Europe excepted I 

Most admirers of the u Fragments from France M 
cartoons {and who is not an admirer of his in these 
days ?) know that the very first (and unpublished) 
" fragments * J were dribbled on the walls of 


i 7 6 


$lt&t^»A" <*- <itc^-^U— "^*^zr*- 6\ 



replaced by one better cal- 
culated to accommodate the 
more intricate creations of 
the boyish mind, now reach- 
ing to manhood's estate. 
There was an interval of 
some years, during which 
toy theatres were put aside 
in favour of the rigours of 
military training and life in 
a barracks, and, later, -the 
less harsh and uncongenial 
tasks devolving on an en- 
gineering student, " until, 
finally, in August, 19 14, 
Bruce Bairasfather, with 
other members of that First 
Hundred Thousand, went to 
sit in the first primitive 
trenches ever made, in 
Flanders, ready to perform 
whatever feats of patriotic 
valour should fall to the lot 
of that most pathetically- 
unrecognized of all war 
heroes — a Second Lieuten- 
ant ! Little did he dream 
as he sat in the Flanders 
mud and struggled to survive 
the mental and physical 
agony of those first months 
of the war that, as a relief 
to the tension of suffering 
caused by his vivid imagina- 
tion and the horror of his 
environment, he would draw 
humorous sketches, destined 


billets and in dug-outs in Flanders, but 
few are familiar with the origin of 
"The Better 'Ole " or guess at the 
causes which led eventually to its 
being written. 

As a matter of fact, the very first 
seeds of "The Better 'Ole" were 
germinated in the brain of a small boy 
when he was taken, nearly twenty years 
ago, to the Crystal Palace. Here he 
saw the miniature theatres and the 
quaint marionette actors who people 
them, and his quick, receptive imag- 
ination was fired to such an extent 
that he went home and, for many 
months afterwards, spent all his spare 
time building a toy theatre. This first 
effort was a crude affair, made of 
cardboard, odd scraps of tin, and a 
few accessories, purchased with what 
remained of a schoolboy's pocket- 
money after his inner man had been 
satisfied with pies and lemonade and 
other equally indigestible and necessary 
stimulants. Later it was discarded in 
favour of a more elaborate structure, 
which in turn was put on one side and > «|* THE Avn ™^2%F2Z5£? ««^bo^»- 





Imagine a. cosy room, a crack- 
ling lire, two forms shadowed 
in wreaths of tobacco smoke, 
and two heads bent in earnest 
conversation, with occasional 
long pauses of silence broken 
perhaps by the clink of a glass 
or the note of a 
bird echoing 
from the outside 
stillness t and you 
have some idea 
of the atmos- 
phere in which 
"The Better 
'Ole * r was con- 
ceived , Some- 
times the two 
coll a bo rat ors 
have sat night 
after night plan- 
ning and altering 
a plot , making 
and rejecting 
ideas and re- 
placing old with 
new suggestions 





ultimately to bring him world-wide fame, 
and create a national character such as 
Old Bill, around whom he would one day 
write a play, which, during the course 
of a world -tour extending over several 
years, would be witnessed by millions of 
people ! 

Fate, hi her usual mysterious manner, 
had decreed all this, and. as a means 
to fulfilment, brought about a meeting 
between Bruce Bairnsfather — now re- 
moved from the ignominy of a Second 
Lie ut* nancy to the exalted position of 
Captain— aid. Captain Arthur Eliot, 
During a period of convalescing from 
the effects of a shelling received at 
Ypres, Captain Bairnsfather had written 
a short sketch, which had been pro- 
duced at the Hippodrome and applauded 
to the extent of seven curtains nightly. 
Following on the immediate success of 
his first effort at play- writing, a suggestion was 
made that he should write a full -si zed play* He 
and Captain Eliot talked over this suggestion, 
and, immediately on deciding to exert their 
energies in the writing of a ptay, they packed 
their suit -cases and hied them to a secluded 
country house, wh»re they dug themselves in 
for the next few weeks, to emerge triumphant 
with a smile of satisfaction and *he complete 
MS. of " The Better 'Ole/' 

Needless to add that the stimulants on this 
occasion were not lemonade and pies — but 
rather a goodly supply of Scotch and unlimited 
quantities of Gold Flake cigarettes. 

PhoUt QP.U. 

ad infinitum, and not one in spired line has rewarded 
their nightly vigils or marred the virgin whiteness 
of the blank sheets with which they started out. 
On other occasions ideas have been as thick as 
blackberries on a bush, and the difficulty has 
been to transcribe them fast enough. 

" Old Bill was our main trouble/' says Captain 
Bairnsfather (when you can induce this young 
playwright to forget his dreams of Art for a 
sufficient length of time to enable him to discuss 
his first-born). "The difficulty was to imagine a 
plot that it would be possible to weave round 
such a peculiar character as Old Bill — one 
his typically British temperament and many 

i 7 8 


little idiosyncrasies would fit, as it were. After 
endless- thinking and discussion Captain Eliot 
and I hit upon the romantic plot we wanted, 
and then came the question of making use of 
Bert and Alf as foils to Old Bill, working up the 
character of each of these modern -musketeers, 
thinking out characteristic gags and by-play for 
each, and fitting them both into the general 
scheme of the plot. These were the principal 
and most difficult problems to face. Then came 
the necessity of impregnating the play with the 
proper atmospheric feeling of the life and con- 
ditions fared by the real Bills, Berts, and Alfs 
in the trenches I had but recently left ; and I can 
remember how I sat for hours absorbing myself 
retrospectively in impressions of Flanders and 
other parts of the battle -front as I had known 
them during those first never-to-be-forgotten 
days of Hun hunting. In my mind the setting 
for the incidents which comprise ' The Better 
'Ole ' are laid around Armentieres, Bailleul, and 
Ncuve Chapelle. 

" One point I was emphatic about, and that 
was the introduction of music and girls to add a 
touch of brightness to things. Finally Captain 
Eliot and I emerged from our country retreat 
feeling very much like undiscovered Pineros, 
with the fruit of our labours of the last few weeks 
safe and at hand, and an unbounded feeling of 
hope and confidence in our hearts. I must say 
this feeling wore off with alarming rapidity after 
we had taken our precious MS. to several 
managers, only to have it sent back to us, in the 
course of time — refused I Fortunately, before 
giving up hope, we sent the script of ' The 
Better 'Ole ' to Mr. Charles B. ' Cochran, who 
read it, approved, accepted, and made arrange- 
ments to produce it forthwith. We then got 
Mr. Herman Darewski to write suitable music 
for the show (I always call what he did 
compose ' Fragments from France music,' be- 
cause, to my mind, he caught the spirit of "the 
* Fragments ' so well), and I set about designing 
the scenery and building a super model theatre 
in which to set it and catch the right effects that 
I wanted carried out on the real stage. 

" Captain Eliot and I had already decided on 
having two acts and seven scenes, so it only 
remained for me to design the scenery for the 
different sets, mount them on cardboard, and 
try them out with. proper lighting effects in the 
new model theatre I built for the purpose. This 
one, unlike the earlier efforts of my boyhood 
days, I made on most elaborate plans, sparing 
no personal energy or expense in its construction 
so that I would be able to get the effects down 
to the minutest detail which I felt were so 
necessary to a perfect production. To begin 
with, I built the theatre on accurate 
lines of proportion, so that, looking 
at the stage from a distance of six feet, 
you obtained the same effect as you 
would by viewing an ordinary stage from 

the dress circle. The back of the stage I fitted 
with an elaborate electrical installation, so that 
I could obtain whatever effects of lighting are 
obtainable on a real stage, fitted in footlights, 
trap-doors, and arc lights, and built a grid with 
which to manipulate my model scenery. Th< 
work which all this entailed seemed endless, and 
Captain Eliot and I spent many hours discussing, 
planning, and re-arranging things before we felt 
sufficiently confident that our work in this 
direction was as near perfection as we could 
make it. 

" Then came the hour for its production, and 
I lived through the day of August 4th, 191 7, in 
such an agony of apprehension and doubt that, 
if anyone had suggested withdrawing it even at 
that late hour, I would have gladly consented. 
I sat with my mother somewhere in the back 
stalls where no one would recognize me and 
strained every nerve to gauge the effect of the 
play on the audience. After the applause had 
died down at the dose of the first act I breathed 
freely. My instinct told me the play was a 
success ! After tbat I don't remember very 
clearly what happened.- -I have a confused 
memory of the audience applauding wildly, 
cheers and speeches from the stage, what 
appeared to be millions of programmes being 
stacked up before me to sign, people crowding 
round me and stretching across rows of seats in 
order to shake hands with and speak to me, and 
honeyed words of praise and adulation to follow 
from the managers and actors responsible for its 
production. After it was all over I came away 
from the Oxford teeling intoxicated and half stupid 
with elation and the reaction that sets in after 
any period of intense strain, and crept wearily 
to the best of all 'oles for me that night — bed. 

" I have since seen the first night production 
of ' The Better 'Ole ' in New York, when it wa*> 
as instantaneous a success as the London pro- 
duction, and it again fell to my lot to have 
' greatness thrust upon me ' in the shape of 
cheers and deafening apjilause, autographing 
and speeches, and an epicurean feast at Del- 
monico's to follow. I was to have gone to 
Australia to father the production of ' The 
Better 'Ole ' in those far-distant parts, but 
serious ear trouble compelled my return to 
London and a consequent abandonment of this 
project . . . And I think that is all," concludes 
this modest young actor-playwright, with a 
gentle smile and a wistful glance at the easel on 
which stands a hall-finished Bystander cartoon 
that you feel he is longing to resume work on 
and so lose himself once more in his world of 
Art and dreams. 

The many people who have seen " The 
Better 'Ole " and loved it can look- 
forward to seeing its successor, which 
Captain Bairnsfather and Captain Eliot 
have just completed and which will 
be produced shortly. 

frto U **r~' 

by Google 

Original from 

gQreen Eijes 

£ ROdER WfW 


YRIL GRAY suddenly awoke 
and seemed rather surprised to 
find himself in bed. The month 
was June, and as the quarter- 
light of early dawn was beginning 
to steal into the room, he con- 
cluded it was very nearly three 
o'clock. It was a wonderful 
awakening ; he had leapt from slumber as a 
water-nymph might leap from a pool. His brain 
was miraculously clear and sane. 

Then he remembered. It all came back to him 
like an evil cloud across a radiant sky. He had 
been ill — seriously ill. How long ? He hadn't 
the faintest idea.. Days and nights had all 
merged into one vague continuity of suffering. 
For an interminable time, it seemed, his mind 
had been a jungle of fever-fancies— depressed, 
distracted, haunted by sinister fears and mean- 
ingless apprehensions. But now, with this 
sublime awakening, the illness had no doubt 
passed right away, and the shadows had left 
him for ever. He wanted to shout, to sing for 

His wife was sleeping heavily on the next 
bed — sleeping like one worn out with anxiety 
and too-long watching. He decided not to rouse 
her. Nevertheless, he wanted to sing — to sing 
a new song of his own composing ; for Cyril 
Gray was a young musician. On that day — was 
it last week, last month, or last year ? — when 
he was stricken down, he had been trying to 
compose a song, and it had haunted him through 
broken deliriums. He had tried to sing snatches 
in his sleep. But it would not come right, and 
it worried him. He could not remember the 
final words, but now, with this splendid awaken- 
ing, the whole thing was complete, words and 
music ! Perhaps his subconscious mind had 
helped him. 

It had been a brilliant idea — this new song of 
his. He realized the uselessness of beating the 
old paths of song-writing. The man who is to 
win fame must discover something new and 
distinctive, and it struck him that (so far as he 
was aware) no one hacj ever tried to set a sonnet 
to music. How was it, he reflected, that the 
most perfect form of lyrical poetry was not 
wedded to immortal music ? Surely the thing 


V / 

could be done. The octave was easy enough, 

and the mounting passion of the sestet, with the 

magnificence of the grand last line, should inspire 

the finest music. He had determined to do it — 

to do it well. He had wrestled with it for days. 

And now, spontaneously as it seemed, he had 

succeeded wondrously. He hummed the melody 

to himself as the room slowly grew into half-light. 

The words, too ! He did not know where he 

had read them, and he had forgotten the poet's 

name, but he remembered it clearly now. It was 

Tennyson Turner, of course. It described a 

little girl of three playing with a coloured globe — 

" She patted all the world ; old empires peep'd 

Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand 

Was welcome at all frontiers • • •" 

until she found the spot, a tiny island which 
was her home. She hailed it joyously, and then 
the glorious culmination : — 

44 And while she hid all England with a kiss, 
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair." 

Cyril Gray exulted in silence. It was good to 
be conscious, to feel free and light, to watch the 
pale blue of the sky, to see the shadows dis- 
solving in the room. He felt as if he could go 
floating away into space, buoyed up by sheer 
happiness, and winged with his song. 

But a swift fear darted upon him. Suppose 
he should forget his dream-sonnet ? Forget the 
words, the melody, and those final chords ! It 
was the easiest thing in the world to forget the 
gifts bestowed in sleep. They were clear one 
moment, and faded like a rainbow the next. 
Was he going to remember ? He hummed the 
tune again, beating time with one finger. He 
had got it still, complete and miraculous, in his 
clear brain. If only he had a pencil and score ! 

It was really important to get it down on 
paper. Would it hurt him to slip downstairs 
and jot it down ? Was he strong enough to 
walk ? The idea made him laugh. That was 
the marvellous thing n.bout this sudden awaken- 
ing of his ! He felt better than he had ever felt 




in his life. He could run, or dance, or jump a 
five^barred gate. He almost felt he could fly. 

He slid from the bed and stood up ; arid he 
was steady upon his feet. He slipped into a 
dressing-gown, and stole downstairs into the 
drawing-room below. The paper was on the 
piano ; he felt the pencil beside it just where 
he had left it ; and he sat on a couch close to 
the window in order to see* The room was still 
very dark. 

With a fierce joy he transcribed his melody, 
but he could not be 
sure of the chords 
till he had tried 
them. They were 
unusual, and com- 
bined ecstasy with 
triumph* He went 
across to the piano, 
hesitating. Would 
it arouse Ills wife ? 
He thought not, fur 
she was sleeping 
deeply. Quietly, 
then, he began to 
play, but in his 
enthusiasm forgot 
his wife, iorgot his 
illness, forgot him- 
self, and struck out 
the rich, grand, 
final phrases. They 
were indescribably 
effective. He could 
have cried for very 


Something hap- 
pened that moment 
that set his heart 
thumping violently 
and brought him 
back to his senses. 
His dream was shat- 
tered by a loud 
banging at the front 

" What can it 
be?" he mur- 
mured, and went 
close to the clock 
to see the time- It 
was barely half-past 
three. The bang- 
ing was repeated 

i- The devil!" he 

Going into the 
hall, his heart stood 
still. Through the 
stained-glass win- 
dow, he could per- 
ceive a dim* grey 
outline of a figure, 
while two eyes of 
intense and vivid 
green shone through 
the glass, He had 

never seen anything so green as those eyes. 
Like a man dreaming, he opened the door* 
and without a word the figure advanced* 
passed him r and entered the drawing-room. He 
closed the door and shivered, 

Cyril Gray was not a nervous man by tempera- 
ment, but that strange -figure frightened him. 
A sense of uncanny fear drank up his senses — 
but he followed, 

" You wonder who 1 am," said a sweet 
voice, and there was a peal of laughter, like 

a rill of mountain 

" I don't know 
you." he managed 
to gasp. 

The girl, lor girl 
it w T as, was tall as 
himself. Her robe 
was of black velvet 
Her flesh was like 
ivory, Her eyes 
were emerald green 
and lustrous. The 
light of the dawn 
was on her face 
as she smiled at 

"Are you very 
surprised ? " she 

"I'm- 1 N m afraid 
I'm dreaming/' he 
said. H< f shall 
waken up in bed." 

J ' Why, what is 
puzzling you ? n 

" Your eyes/' he 

** Look at your 
own in the glass/' 
she said. 

His own eyes 
were distinctly 
green — and shining 
like hers. 

" What does it 
mean ? " he mur- 
mured, half to him- 

"Can't you 
guess ? " 

M Not V* (He 
shook his head and 
turned again to the 
mirror r ) ' f I s uppose 
something has gone 
wrong with my 
sense of colour ? 
Something to do 
with my illness, 1 

" Your senses are 
clearer than they 
have ever been/ 1 

" Yes p I can be- 
lieve that," 






better, hear better, feel more richly. Don't 
you find it so ? " 

" Yes; now you mention it." 
" And you can work better. You can create 
with absolute ease. It's simple as wishing. Tell 
me about your song." 

" What do you know about my song ? " 
" Ah ! Can't you guess yet ? Suppose I was 
going past and heard you playing ? It is 
perfect ! " 

" But look here. Excuse me for being blunt. 
Who are you, and what are you to me ? What 
does it mean ? " 

" It would be rather a shock if I told you, I 
fancy. You will find out for yourself in a few 

" But it's all so queer and so inexplicable. 
Here am I in my own little drawing-room, 
talking to a stranger at half -past three in the 
morning I Am I dreaming ? Is this delirium ? 
I was ill, you know. Too weak to move. Last 
night I was worse, I believe." 
" So ybu were. Much worse." 
" Then, what has happened ? " 
" Haven't you tumbled to it yet ? But tell 
me about your song." 

" The thing has been worrying me for weeks 
—before I was ill. I have had it on my brain 
all along. The creative impulse was there, but 
I couldn't get it to take shape. It was chaotic 
and disordered. At the back of my mind was 
the impression, but somehow I couldn't trans- 
late into music — couldn't get the effects. It has 
been turning over and over in my brain, going 
round and round, altering continually, but never 
by any chance coming right. I woke this morn- 
ing, about half an hour ago, with the whole 
thing clear and finished. It was like an inspira- 
tion. I feel I could go on composing for hours 
without the least difficulty or fatigue. The 
obstacle has gone. It's a wonderful sensation." 
She nodded, smiling, and added : — 
" And still you don't realize ? " 
" I've realized myself. I've come into my 
own. Is that what you mean ? " 
" Partly." 
" It's a marvellous experience, and a marvellous 

piece of good luck ; but beyond that " 

" I think you are the slowest man I've found 
so far." 

She stood up and gazed through the window 
across the valley. The sky was getting brighter 
every moment, and fantastic mists were wreath- 
ing and coiling from the meadows. He stood 
beside her in silence, and a strange feeling of 
gaiety and youthfulness possessed him. 

" How do you feel when you look into that 
sky ? " she asked. 

" I feel I could float up and up " 

" Well ? " 
" What of it ? " 

She turned her weirdly beautiful eyes upon 
him and laughed again. 

" You funny boy I " she exclaimed. 
" This is a terribly funny dream ! " he mut- 

" To go floating up and up " she sug- 

" Do say what you mean," he begged her, 
growing impatient. 

" Go and play that sonnet again," she replied. 
" Don't play it with your fingers ; play il with 
your soul." 

" That sounds rather — rather banal/' he 
grumbled. " A bit like Longfellow, or Tennyson 
at his worst." 

He approached the piano, but hesitated. 
" My wife," he said. " It will waken her, and 
she's exhausted, you know. Also, it might be a 
trifle awkward to explain." 

" Explain ? " she repeated, looking mystified. 

" Well, rather compromising for you — in 
the circumstances, don't you think ? Consider- 
ing that I haven't the vaguest idea who you 
are. And — and it's not four o'clock in the 
morning I " 
-" Please play. It might help you to see." 

" I can hardly see the notes." 

" You won't need to see them." 

" Perhaps not." 

He struck the first chords, and began to sing 
— he could not help himself. He was carried 
away with enthusiasm and rapture. And, 
having begun, he went on with rising exultation 
until he attained the amazing climax. There 
followed an interval of stealthy silence, while his 
strange visitor stood gazing over the brightening 

A movement was heard upstairs — then a cry — 
a long cry of anguish and dismay. 

" It's Cicely. She has suddenly missed me," 
he said, turning pale, and he half turned to go 

" Hadn't you better go ? " he asked, checking 
his impulse. 

" Stay here," she said, quietly. " Keep still 
and listen." 

He sank down on the couch beside her. 

" She's coming downstairs I " he said, springing 

" Sit down. She won't see us." 

" She — won't — see — us ! " 

" Listen I " 

Cyril Gray's wife did not enter the drawing- 
room. She ran to the telephone in the passage, 
and rang up hurriedly, excitedly. 

" Is that Doctor Hamer ? Oh ! I'm Mrs. 
Gray. Will you come at once ? He's gone I " 

" Good heavens ! " said Gray to himself. 
" Why does she want to call the doctor to tell 
him that ? " 

His wife went on at the telephone : — 

" I was asleep, I must have dropped asleep. 
He's dead ! Dead ! Whatever shall I do ? " 

" What's that ? " Gray exclaimed, turning to 
the strange visitor. " So that's what you were 
trying to tell me ? That's the meaning of my 
song ! I can't, I can't leave her like that ! " 

" You can't choose now," she replied softly. 

" I don't believe it I " 

" If you could choose would you go back?" 

" Certainly, I would." 

" And be unable to compose ? To go blunder- 
ing and fumbling for inspirations that will come 
right of thtiTiselvea ? ,l 

"lUoukii ishsdMfCH 



The visitor 
looked on him 
with eyes of sur- 
prise and in- 

"You call 
yourself an 
artist ? You call 
yourself a mu- 
sician ? " she 
said* " No artist 
would allow a 
paltry thing like 
domesticity to 
stand between 
himself and his 
Inspiration, In 
the bodily life 
you have to 
grope, stupidly, 
with clumsy in- 
struments p It is 
torment to have 
the creative de- 
sire, and yet be 
almost impotent 
to express it. 
The spirit is 
manacled, im- 
prisoned ; but 
now your spirit 
is free 1 Free I 
You can soar 1 
You can fly 1 
Come I" 

She grasped 
his wrist in 
enthusiasm, and 
while she spoke 
he felt himself 
surrendering to 
her spell- But a 
moment after he 
saw Cicely 
standing by the 
porch, staring 
with wild eyes 
towards the high 
road. An infinite 
love and sorrow 
filled him, and 
he turned upon 
his enchanting 
visitor. He was 
angry with her, 
and was about 

to make a fierce remonstrance. To his aston- 
ishment, however, she looked different — more 
aerial, translucent, unreal. The brilliant splen- 
dour of her emerald eyes was fading. 

" I'm going back to Cicely/* he said. " You 
can go away." 

M As you will/' she replied, smiling faintly. 
" I would not persuade you against your wilh 
On the one hand, there is human life with its 
struggles and agonies. On the other '* 

" I choose the human life." he snapped, 



The light was now beginning to nil every 
corner of the room, and the beauteous apparition 
was dissolving. 

Cyril Gray watched his wife for a few seconds* 
Her face was pale and drawn with a great pain, 
tie did not go to her ; he felt it would be use- 
less, lie knew — intensely he knew — that at all 
costs he must return to the bedroom. On the 
stairs he turned dizzy, and his brain began to 
grow mazy. He almost collapsed in a swoon, 
but with every fibre of his being he struggled 

oii - wmwim &iMm&M*w"**' 



He could hardly see now, but he staggered 
on. Three more stairs — two more— tine more — 
and he reeled drunkenly. It wa$ useless to try 
any more. But he must reach the bedroom ; he 
must reach the bed before he swooned away. 
In the passage he clung hard to the hand-rail — 
then he fell, and consciousness almost melted 
away. But he fought against it — fought with 

The bedroom at last I Me could see the bed 
vaguely, through a sick mist, and it seemed to 
him there was a figure lying there* It lay so 
still, terribly stilt ; yet he felt no fear* A strange 
longing, rather ; a yearning that was like 
nothing else in life ! He reached the bed, drow 
back the clothes, slipped in, and fell deep into 
a sea wherein everything was lost. 

• * * * * 

Cyril Gray emerged some hours later. Doctor 

IT a m c r and 
Cicely we re 
standing "over 
him, looking 
only half - real, 
like the lady 
with the green 
eyes when he 
saw her last, 

" Cyril darl- 
ing] "said Cicely, 

"I'm all 
right," he said, 
feebly. " I'm 
coming back to 
life again." 

" The crisis is 
safely past." 
said the doctor. 
" I finished the 
sonnet/' said the 

" W hat's 
that ? " 

" He's ram- 
bling. I think, 
T he so 11 net - — it 
has been on his 

41 Oh I I'm so 
relieved ! I had 
such a fright I " 

" There's no 
cause for alarm 
now, Mrs. Gray," 
said the doctor. 
" But I'll call 
again towards 
noon. Let him 
sleep as long as he likes." 

Doctor Hamer went out, and Lis wife returned 
to Cyril Gray. 

" Please go into the drawing-room and letch 
my sonnet*" he said. " You 11 find it on the 

" You've been dreaming, dear," she answered, 
#l It can't be on the piano. I've put your things 

" Please go and see," he begged. 
She went — to humour him. To her amaze- 
ment, she found that he was right. The score 
was scribbled in blacklead. 
He snatched at it eagerly, 
" Yes I " he said, excitedly, " It's all right, 
you see 1 I wasn't dreaming after all." 
And he began to hum it over. 
It was all right, and with a beatific smile, still 
clasping his precious score, he slept Like a child, 


Original from 


The True Story of a Secret Club of Duellists 
now Revealed for the First Time. 


Illustrated by S. Seymour Lucas. 

In the year 1830 the number of professional duellists in Paris — of ruffians who picked 
quarrels for the sake of fighting and who were little better than assassins — was so 
great that a band of young men formed themselves into a secret club, two hundred 
and fifty-one in number, took a large back room camouflaged by a ca/i in front, 
practised fencing day and night for months, and then selected their twelve best men, 
together with their president, to challenge and fight these public bullies and kill them 
off one by one. Their president, Count Joanes de Capaillan, himself a duellist, 
was a type of the immortal d'Artagnan of "The Three Musketeers "—tall, spare, 
wiry, not without a "touch" of swagger or panache. He and his twelve 
followers actually put down the gangs of the professional bullies in Paris. The 
society was kept so secre that its very existence remained unsuspected until long 
after it had broken up. \cs records, however, were preserved, and it is from these 
that we extract the following account of the circumstances which led to the first 
duel fought by its adventurers, which is a typical example of its aims and methods. 



\ FRATERNELLE" having 
been duly organized, with 
its president at its head and 
the twelve champions fully 
equipped for the fray, the next 
business was to ascertain who 
were the fresh arrivals on the 
duelling field with whom con- 
clusions could be tried. 

During the preceding year the family of 
spadassins had increased considerably, and among 
them were several whose sinister exploits were 
the talk of the town, when a new-comer appeared 
on the scene and concentrated public attention 
on himself. 

His name was Gustave Giraud, and he was 
a native of Martinique, where he had gained an 
unenviable notoriety for ferocity, although he 
was barely four-and -twenty years of age. 

He was a half-caste and a very handsome 
man, with a countenance whose expression 
gave no idea of the savage nature of his dispo- 
sition. On the contrary, he was to all appear- 
ances mild, affable, and inoffensive. The 
atrociously brutal deeds committed by bim 

were, nevertheless, formal evidence of the 
falsity of his mask. 

As he was very rich he had surrounded himself, 
immediately on his arrival in France, with an 
amount of vulgar, ostentatious luxury that 
naturally brought him into greater prominence. 
That, probably, was his deliberate intention. 
In a short time the audacity of his insults, his 
rash duels, and his bloody victories made the 
young mulatto a terror, feared by all and a 
source of serious anxiety to the town. 

Gustave Giraud had scarcely set foot on 
French soil before he was placed by the members 
of la Fraternelle in their index eftpurgatorius. 
Unfortunately, they had not yet completed 
their six months' apprenticeship, and were 
therefore completely powerless against the out- 
bursts of the man who had been pointed out to 
them as one of the most formidable foes with 
whom they could possibly have to deal. They 
had received very precise information concerning 
him, for this man, cruel as a tiger, had found 
means during his recent sea voyage to render 
himself hateful and loathsome in the eyes of 
his fellow-passengers. 




Even his departure from Saint Pierre justified 
his reputation, seeing/ that he had quitted his 
native country in consequence of a duel in which 
he had killed his best friend, the only friend 
he had, and what happened on the voyage 
confirmed it. 

It appears that when he came on board the 
captain could not help confiding his uneasiness 
to several of the passengers, but they, all of 
them compatriots of Giraud, begged the captain 
to overcome his scruples, and receive Giraud 
as a passenger, because the hatred with which 
he was regarded in the Colony was so intense 
that his continued presence there would inevit- 
ably lead to scenes of extreme violence, and 
his departure for Europe was for the good of 
the country. 

Captain Ducasse, who was in command of 
the Dactole, was a good man as well as a good 
sailor. He yielded to these entreaties and 
received Giraud on board his ship. 

Durmg the first few days of the vovage the 
young mulatto behaved himself very well, 
and appearances were all in favour of the absence 
of anything disastrous happening, when one 
morning the sounds of fierce quarrelling were 
heard in the fore part of the ship. 

Gustave Giraud was engaged in a stand-up 
fight with a negro. 

The captain, who had never witnessed such 
scandalous proceedings on board his ship, at 
once rushed from his cabin to the scene of the 
encounter, but he was too late. In a moment 
of uncontrollable passion Giraud had seized 
the negro round the waist and had hurled him 
over the bulwarks into the sea. 

A cry of horror resounded from the lips of 
all the sailors who were spectators of the scene, 
and they would have flung Giraud overboard 
to keep the negro company if Captain Ducasse, 
who had fortunately preserved his presence of 
mind, had not immediately ordered a boat to 
be lowered. 

The sea happened to be calm, -and the negro 
was rescued. 

As might naturally be expected, this act 
of brutality was a violent shock to the little 
community assembled in the saloon of the 
sailing ship. The crew made no attempt to 
conceal the feeling of revenge which they 
entertained towards the man who could be 
guilty of such atrocity, and the feeling was all 
the . stronger because the sole reason of the 
quarrel was that the negro had riot been quick 
enough in getting out of the way of the mulatto 
when the latter was passing him. 

But when the authoritative voice of the 
captain was heard there was general silence, 
especially when that officer said in a tone which 
commanded obedience : — 

" Monsieur Giraud, as Commander of the 
Dactole, I order you to follow me to my cabin." 

No third person was present at this interview, 
but it is certain that Giraud, far from repenting 
of his brutality, or at all events seeking to 
extenuate it by acknowledging himself in fault, 
was indignant at the remonstrances of the 
captain, and without waiting for the interview 

to come to a fitting conclusion, rushed from the 
cabin in a towering rage. 

As ill-luck would have it, at that very 
moment M. Lamarque, a passenger and the 
master of the negro who had narrowly escaped 
a watery grave, was close to the companion 
ladder, and found himself face to face with 
Giraud just as the latter came furiously out 
of the captain's cabin. 

What pasped between the two men nobody 
knew, but a quarrel at once ensued in which 
violent language was used on both sides. The 
passengers, male and female, hurried to the spot, 
and among the latter was Mme. Lamarque, 
just in time to see her husband receive a couple 
of blows full in the face. 

The vessel was but a week out, and the voyage 
on an average took two months. The painful 
situation of the unfortunate passengers, com- 
pelled to remain on board with such a wretch, 
may easily be imagined. 

A few moments after silence had been restored 
M. Lamarque went in search of the captain, who 
was in his cabin. On seeing him enter, still 
smarting from the insult he had received in the 
presence of ladies, M. Ducasse shook him warmly 
by the hand, but without seeming to notice the 
mark of sympathy, he exclaimed : — 

" Captain, in the name of my outraged honour, 
in the name of my family, I ask you to sanction 
an immediate meeting between M. Giraud and 

The captain motioned M. Lamarque to a seat, 
and was silent. The situation was undoubtedly 
grave, unparalleled perhaps in the annals of 
duelling, as it must have been in the experience 
of the captain. 

If he had been in M. Lamarque's place, Captain 
Ducasse would certainly have acted as he did. 
But it appeared to him a feartul, almost a 
monstrous, thing to let these men kill each 
other in mid-ocean, on the deck of a ship, under 
the eyes of the crew, and, sadder still, in the 
presence of a poor woman for whom the sound 
of a pistol might mean widowhood. All this 
seemed atrocious to the sailor who, in thinking 
of others, forgot all that attached to bis own 

" Captain, once more I implore you," repeated 
M. Lamarque, as he noticed the hesitation of 
the Commander of the Dactole. 

" Impossible," replied Captain Ducasse. 

" Impossible, do you say ? " exclaimed M. 
Lamarque, rising abruptly to his feet. " Very 
well, captain, if you withhold your sanction I 
swear on my honour that within ten minutes 
I will blow M. Giraud s brains out." 

And, outrageously insulted as he had been, 
he would have done it. Captain Ducasse under- 
stood this at once. 

" Be it so, then, and God help us I " exclaimed 
the sailor. " Only wait until to-morrow. It 
cannot take place at once." 

" Why not ? " asked M. Lamarque. 

" You cannot fight under the very eyes of 
your wife." 

" I should think myself unworthy of her if I 

did not fight this very da.v and I should hold 
unrrLnjI IT Ur mlLTIPj.KTT 



her unworthy of me if she did not approve of 
my conduct. Rest assured, captain, my wife 
knows exactly why I am here with you. She 
is in the saloon with our child on her knee, 
she is waiting for me, and I have no hesitation 
in saying that she expects that I shall have 
wiped out the insult before to-night." 

He was right. Madame Lamarque, a young 
mulatto of four-and -twenty, very pretty, and 
adoring her husband, was awaiting his return 
with her arms round their child, a charming boy 
of six, who was in entire ignorance of what was 
transpiring. The young woman was pale and 
downcast, but she had been brought up in a 
brutal school, and while fully aware of the con- 
sequences, she approved of the duel which her 
husband was seeking. To her, honour stood 
before life. 

Captain Ducasse was surprised to hear M. 
Lamarque speak as he had just done, but as 
he saw there was no other way out, he bowed 
to the inevitable. The request was merely for 
a prompt settlement of the conditions of the 
duel, which, in any circumstances, was to be to 
the death. 

All the necessary steps were quickly taken. 

The second officer of the ship was to act as 

second to Gustave Giraud, who was amazed 

when he was informed that M. Lamarque had 

^challenged him to fight on the spot. 

" Are you really serious ? " he asked his 

" Perfectly," was the reply. 

" There will be ladies present, then," said the 
duellist, with a smile. " Quite a full-dress affair, 
so we must not make any mistake. By the way, 
what weapons does that dear fellow, Lamarque, 
choose ? " 

" Pistols." 

" Pistols ! " replied Giraud, in astonishment. 
" Tell him then that I shall kill him. I should, 
perhaps, not have cared to run him through 
with a sword, but at fifteen paces with a bullet 
he may rely upon me." 

" We need not discuss that," said his second. 
" The choice of weapons does not rest with you. 
All I ask of you, as your second, is to be ready 
in a quarter of an hour." 

" I shall be ready." 

Whilst the second officer was arranging matters 
with Gustave Giraud, Captain Ducasse was 
seeing to everything and issuing stringent orders 
to his crew, who were one and all bitterly opposed 
to the mulatto. First of all, the sailors were 
drawn up in line along the port side of the 
vessel, with orders not to stir except by command 
of the captain. The negro, the involuntary 
cause of the fracas, had been confined in the 
hold as a precautionary measure, as it was 
more ttrn probable that, if his master were 
hit, he would do something desperate to avenge 

The passengers were shut up in the saloon, a 
formality carried into effect by the captain 
himself, who put the key in his pocket. 

The young and courageous Mme. Lamarque 
had, by dint of entreaty, obtained permission to 
await the issue of the duel in the captain's cabin, 

which looked on to the deck, as she wished 
at all hazards to be fin t^ at her husband's side 
if he needed her care. 

After these precautions had been taken. 
Captain Ducasse, assisted by the second officer, 
loaded the pistols in the presence of the crew, 
and then, as the duel was to be fought on 
the larboard side of the ship, he tossed up to 
decide which of the two adversaries should have 
the choice of position. Gustave Giraud, who 
won the toss, chose the forward position. M. 
Lamarque had, consequently, to stand aft, 
against the poop. 

The distance was fifteen paces. The principals 
were posted, and chance was consulted a second 
time to settle who was to fire first, for at that 
period it was the custom for every combatant 
to take aim at his adversary as long as he chose. 
This time fortune favoured M. Lamarque, who 
claimed his right to fire first. 

It was a solemn moment, more impressive, 
more solemn than usual, because the setting for 
this drc. na was so simple in its grandeur, only 
the sea and sky, and the sea scarcely moved the 
vessel on which these two men were about to 
fight to the death. The profound peace and 
silence seemed to give Nature's tacit consent to 
the crime which two of God's creatures were 
about to commit — a gale of wind and a duel 
would have been impossible. But no 1 On that 
day the sea was dead calm. 

At last the word was given. 

M. Lamarque slowly lowered his pistol and 

At the same moment Giraud seemed to seek 
some support, and his left hand clutched at the 
air. He then tottered toward the bulwarks, 
and sank down on a heap of old sails. He was hit. 

None of the crew moved. The second officer 
of the ship alone went to his assistance. Almost 
simultaneously the anxious and tear-stained 
face of Mme. Lamarque appeared at the door 
of the captain's cabin. 

" He is dead 1 " she exclaimed. 

" No, madame," replied the wounded man, 
in a tone full of vjndictiveness. " I am not 

On hearing these words the unhappy woman 
uttered a piercing shriek as she covered her 
face with her hands and fell back on the floor 
©f the cabin in a, swoon. 

M. Lamarque remained standing with the 
pistol, still smoking, in his hand. 

Giraud managed to support himself against 
the heap of canvas, and so standing, with his 
right arm advanced, he covered his opponent. 

" It is my turn now," he cried, as he' fired. 

M. Lamarque fell, an inert mass, face down- 
wards on the deck. A stream of blood flowed 
from him. When he was lifted up he was a 
corpse. The ball, entering the right eye, had 
smashed his skull. 

It would be futile to attempt to describe the 
profound emotion with which this catastrophe 
filled the passengers. As may well be imagined, 
the remainder of the voyage was a succession 
of days each of which was, if possible, more 

„ T»i but 

as this 



narrative is merely intended to introduce the of those who witnessed it. Gustave Giraud 
new tjucllist by mearo of a detailed account oi completely recovered iTom his wound, and 
the duel there is no need to follow the fortunes becan^]|t^f.;f^ No wondei; 



then, that from the moment he landed in 
France he was a marked man. 

The members of La Fraternelle did not 
lose sight of him, and a formal meeting of the 
committee was held, the result of which was 

that his death was resolved upon. Gustave 
Giraud was destined to be the first person 
against whom the Association decided to act, but 
he was a formidable foe, and before he was 
conquered some sad sacrifices had to be made* 


In these circumstances the Count de Capaillan, 
their President, who was devoted heart and 
soul to the Association, without further delay 
summoned a conference of the twelve champions. 
The meeting was to be absolutely secret, and 
the President only gave notice of it to the 
m&mbers of the Committee. 

On the appointed day the twelve duly appeared 
at the place of meeting and received the congra- 
tulations of the Count de Capaillan. 

It was winter — the month of December — 
and though it was only half-past three in the 
afternoon when they took their places in the 
room set apart for their deliberations, lamps 
had to be lighted. 

The consultation was in reality of deep import, 
its business being to select a champion — the 
particular member destined to provoke Gustave 
Giraud, whose death had been unanimously 
resolved upon. 

At the first word uttered by the President 
on this subject, the Committee rose to their 
feet as one man, and a dozen voices exclaimed 
at once and with equal enthusiasm : — 


" Excuse me, gentlemen," said the Count 
de Capaillan, " but in order to obviate all 
possibility of jealousy, this question must be 
decided by lot. If that were not so," he con- 
tinued, " I should demand the right of appearing 
in this first affair, but our rules preclude all 
preference, and we must comply with them." 

A murmur of approbation greeted this de- 
claration, and when it had subsided the President 
continued : — 

" M. de Meriteus, you are, I believe, the 
youngest among us, and I will therefore ask 
you to act as secretary. Cut thirteen pieces 
of paper of equal size, write the name of one 
of us on each piece, fold them all in precisely 
the same manner, put them in a hat, and the 
name which I draw first from the hat will be 
that .of the champion. Are you all agreed ? " 

" Yes, yes," was the unanimous response. 

Whilst M. de Meriteus was engaged in his 
task, the sitting was interrupted for the time 
being, and the other members rose from their 
seats and indulged in conversation. 

When M. de Meriteus, having completed his 
task, handed to the President the hat containing 
the thirteen names, each one resumed his place 
in silence, and calmly awaited the result. 

When he had taken the slip from the hat, 
and was holding it up so that everybody could 
see it, a solemn silence prevailed. Each one, 
with his eyes fixed on the President, followed 
with extreme interest his most trivial move- 
ment, and at the moment when he slowly un- 
folded the paper, who knows but that some 
heart beat more quickly than was its wont, 

. Digitized by G* 

some breath was not momentarily held ? At 
last it was seen that the President was about 
to read the name. 

" The lot has fallen on M. le Doux de Mon- 

Immediately all the members left their places 
and hastened to surround the man who was to 
be the first to confront the foe. Radiant 
satisfaction overspread his face as he pressed 
the hands stretched out to him and received 
the congratulations of his comrades. A brave 
heart and a sturdy arm had M. le Doux de 

" Silence, if you please, gentlemen," resumed 
the Count de Capaillan, who presided over 
this strange tribunal with singular dignity. 
*' It now remains for us to decide upon the 
weapon preferred by M. de Montagnac, and to 
settle in what manner we shall lead our adversary 
to give us the choice. For, do not forget, 
gentlemen, that we fight to kill, and with men 
such c-s those with whom we have to do, it 
behoves us to profit by all the advantages 
which honour allows us. To forego them would 
be simply foolish. Will you, therefore, tell 
us, M. de Montagnac, which weapon you prefer ? " 

" I have no choice, M. le President, but I 
think that with the broadsword I can hold my 
own against all comers." 

" Then you must fight with the broadsword. 
As a rule Gustave Giraud chooses pistols, and 
consequently you must not provoke him. It 
is necessary — I must impress this upon you— 
that he should seek a quarrel with you. Yon 
must see to this. According to his usual 
custom he will probably be at the theatre this 
evening. All you have to do is to secure a 
seat next to him." 

" I will see to it, sir, and I promise you that 
to-morrow I will be face to face with this swine/' 
replied the young man. 

" Very well," said de Capaillan, with a smile. 
" I shall be there also," he added, in a tone full 
of* meaning. " And now you are entitled to 
nominate your seconds from among the members 
of the committee." 

" I have chosen my two friends M. Desaugnac 
and M. de Chasseneuil, "replied M. de Montagnac. 

" Gentlemen, hold yoursehts in readiness for 
to-morrow. This meeting is at an end," said 
the President, rising from his chair. 

Although the rules of the Association had 
been strictly observed, the proceedings of this 
important meeting were, as has been seen, 
exceedingly simple. 

From that moment the task of bringing about 
the premeditated duel devolved upon M. le 
Doux de Montagnac. He was barely five -and - 
twenty years of age, the bearer of a distinguished 
name, a very handsome man, and the owner of 

■_| II I M I I I '.' I 1 1 






one of the largest landed estates in his Depart- 
ment. The death of both his parents when he 
was very young had early in life put him in 
possession of an income sufficient to have allowed 
of his having indulged to an unlimited extent in 
all the pleasures oi his age. 

His disposition was kindly and mild, and from 
his prepossessing appearance and winning mi an nor 
it was difficult indeed to divine that he was one 
oi the most formidable of the Committee of La 

It was nine o'clock when he entered the 
theatre- He made his way at once to the stalls, 
looked round about him, and as soon as Ids eye 
lighted on the man of whom he was in search, 
he proceeded to take an unoccupied seat by his 

Gustave Giraud, who had an unenviable 
faculty for creating a void around himself 
whenever he entered a place oi public resort, 
and was fully aware of that fact, at first appeared 
completely astounded at the sight of this young 
man placidly taking a scat by his side, 

" He must be a stranger" said the duellist to 

But when, immediately afterwards, he recog- 
nised in his neighbour one of the young exquisites 
whom he was in the habit of meeting in his daily 
walks abroad, he mentally added : — 

" This seems to me to smack of audacity." 

Meanwhile, the champion of La Fraternelle 

took a seemingly careless glance round the 
theatre, but he, nevertheless, did not fail to 
note that the members of the committee were 
scattered about the house, and especially in 
evidence was the Counf de Capaillan, who was 
enthroned in a prominent box in the balcony, 
triumphantly conspicuous in a costume which 
drew every eye upon its wearer. 

De Montagnac could not help smiling as he 
recognized his chief, and in truth M. de Capaillan 
presented an almost grotesque appearance. His 
attenuated figure was well-nigh lost to view 
beneath a voluminous apple-green coat of ante- 
diluvian cut, such as the boldest of eccentrics 
would not have dared to wear at that epoch. 

The collar of his coat, green, of the shade of a 
billiard table, was high and rolled, a formidable 
rampart such as was worn by the Generals of 
the Republican era, A frilled shirt of many folds 
overwhelmed in its sea of embroideries and lace 
a microscopic vest of canary hue, from whose 
pockets meandered a couple of pinchbeck chains, 
as conspicuous as they were vulgar- By way 
of finish to this costume, he carried in his liand 
a huge stick with an ivory head, largo enough to 
have served as a sign for an umbrella shop. He 
looked as if he had dressed for a wager. 

The Count de Capaillan had evidently decked 
himself after this fashion intentionally* In any 
case he bore the universal gaze without flinching, 
and w^ffl9»[f^^t^i^^fl(ig^ degree uneasy 




by the whisperings aad smothered laughter around Gustave Giraud, like everybody else, was 

him. To all appearance he was ttnconacioufl that amused by tb qua apparition, and indulged 

he was the cause of the aw rrimeiit* in somn sou ren -?rkn nrnn it. When the 



curtain fell he rose to go out, and as be passed 
de Montagnac he said to himself in an audible 
tone : — 

" I must certainly go and get a nearer view 
of that ape." 

" I beg your pardon, sir," said de Montagnac, 
addressing him pointedly, " but that ape is one 
of my intimate friends." 

Giraud, w^o was more than surprised by this 
observation, looked straight at the speaker. He, 
however, kept his temper, in spite of his astonish- 
ment at the manner in which his soliloquy hard 
been answered, and said, insolently : — 

In that case, sir, you should advise your 

friend to perform his monkey tricks elsewhere.". 

"As a negro you should be more indulgent. 

The ape is probably a member of your family," 

replied Montagnac. 

The word negro was perhaps the most insulting 
epithet that could have been applied to the 
mulatto, but considered as a provocation it was 
not sufficient. De Montagnac, though he was 
calm enough, was prepared for some act of 
ferocity. He was right, for Gustave Giraud 
sprang upon him, and, seizing him by both ears, 
he wrenched them as if he would tear them out 
by the roots. The young man gave a cry of 
pain which he could not suppress. 

The entire audience, who had witnessed the 
altercation but had not heard \ word of what 
was said, were filled with indignation. De 
Montagnac, however, retained his presence of 
mind sufficiently to request Gustave Giraud for 
his address.^ 

" There it is, fool ! " said the mulatto, as he 
handed it. to him. "I look forward to killing 
you to-morrow." 

"We will see about that," replied de Mon- 
tagnac, quietly. He then left the theatre, 
where everybody was loudly protesting against 
an act of such cowardly brutality. 

When M. de Montagnac reached the vestibule 
of the theatre his friends surrounded him. The 
Count de Capaillan was smiling triumphantly 
and radiant with satisfaction. 

" Ah, Count I " said the young man as he 
shook hands with him, " I have to thank you 
for this." 

" I know it," was the reply. " Did I not tell 
you that I should be at the theatre this evening ? 
And did I not tell you to place yourself side by 
side with Giraud ? Remember, my dear friend, 
you had really no valid reason to be insulted by 
the wretch, and I feared lest in your impatience 
you would be the first to attack. That gave me 
the idea of dressing myself up in this costume, 
which my grandfather wore in the days of the 
Directory, being well assured that the elegant 
mulatto would make fun of the old rococo. But, 
I confess, I am sorry for your ears." 

" Oh 1 " said de Montagnac, with a threaten- 
ing gesture. " That savage act is his death- 

At ten o'clock on the following morning the 
two adversaries and their four seconds met at 
the appointed place. 

by LiOOglC 

The duel was arranged with ^he minutest care. 
The broadsword, or detni-spadon, as , it was 
called in those days, was the weapon chosen, 
and the encounter was to be to the death. 

In order to obviate, as far as possible, all slight 
wounds, that is to say all wounds not sufficiently 
serious to stop the duel, each combatant wore 
on his right hand a fencing gauntlet reaching up 
to the elbow. 

They fought naked to the waist, and were to 
engage as often as they pleased. 

Lastly, if one of the combatants should be 
disabled by a wound from continuing the fight, 
he was to have the right to call his adversary out 
again when he saw fit, and so on until one of 
them should be killed. 

It was butchery, if you will, but such actually 
were the conditions Of the duel. 

But as chance sometimes takes upon itself to 
enliven the gravest situations in life, so just at 
the moment when the two adversaries were about 
to confront each other, sword in hand, something 
occurred so comic as to appear almost incredible. 
In this case, however, the authenticity is 
guaranteed by one of the seconds. 

This, in a few words, is what happened. 

The meeting took place on a Sunday morning 
outside Bordeaux in a small wood which was 
traversed by a narrow footpath. 

The seconds had just told their principals to 
strip, and the order had been obeyed, so that 
they had only their trousers on when a group of 
peasant* — men, women, and children — on their 
way to mass appeared on the scene* 

What was to be done ? In order to ward off 
suspicion a prompt decision was absolutely 
necessary. One of the seconds conceived a 
sublime idea. 

" Come along," said he to his companion 
before the peasants could hear what he said. 
" Let us have a game of leap-frog." 

The hint was taken at once, and principals 
and seconds without delay set to work like a 
parcel of schoolboys. 

Imagine for a moment the sang-froid of these 
men. In a few moments they would be doing 
their utmost to kill each other, and here they 
were, in order to save appearances, giving each 
other a " back." 

At length the peasants disappeared, Gustave 
Giraud and de Montagnac were face to face, 
and the duel commenced. " 

At the first pass M. de Montagnac received 
a thrust in the right arm. The blood flowed 
freely, but he was not disabled. Immediately 
afterwards, after making a feint at his adver- 
sary's head, he recovered suddenly and ran him 
through the body. Gustave Giraud was wounded 
mortally. He made a futile effort to stand 
upright, and then fell senseless to the ground. 
Two days later he was a corpse. 

Such was the first duel of La Fraternelle 
— the first of a series which only ended when 
every professional bully and assassin had been 
weeded out of Paris. , , 

unginal from 


5? Romance 



Iffastrated by Tom Peddie 

, ■■■■-. -■■■.! - i m 


Cleo de Bronsart — a girl of twenty, unmarried, dark-haired, fragile, and beautiful as a dream — 
was one of four guests of Prince Selm on his palatial steam-yacht, the " Gaston de Paris." CUo, 
one of the old French nobility, had no leanings towards the People. She looked on the lower classes 
just as she looked on animals, beings with rights of their own, but belonging to an entirely different 
order of creation. Consequently, when the vessel was wrecked and she found herself and two rough 
and sea-hardened sailors — Bompard and La Touche — cast upon the inhospitable shores of Kerguelen, 
sole survivors of the catastrophe, these vier)s lent piquancy to her situation. Two or three days later 
she was walking along the beach one windy morning, facing the problem that shipwreck had put 
before her — a problem ranging from soap to a change of garments — when suddenly something sprang 
on her and flung her on the sand. 



T was the wind. The Wooiey, 
which is the fist of Kerguelen 
suddenly clenched and hitting 
out from the shoulder of the 
great islands, now suddenly 
stormed about with foam and 
i veiled in spray. 

Half stunned, she twisted 
round, still lying, but fronting it now with her 
arm protecting her face. The beach had loudened 
up in thunder from end to end, but the yelling 
Wooiey as it met the cliffs and howled inland 
almost drowned the thunder of the waves. 
Then it died down as suddenly as it had come, 
and the boom of the surf rose high, as the girl, 
gathering berselt together, got up and struggled 

She was no longer thinking of her hair. It was 
the first lesson of the school of Kerguelen. 
" Here you shall think of nothing but the 
moment, of the ground beneath your feet, of 

Copyright, 1919, by 

the bite you put in your mouth, of the rock 
that stands before you." 

When she reached the cave, with her petticoats 
threshing about her, she was met by the two men, 
and as she came up to them La Touche was 
cursing the wind. The Wooiey had all but^ 
blown him down, too. He had got up sooner 
than Bompard, and had received the full force 
of it "in the pit of the stomach. " He seemed 
to look on it as a personal matter affecting him 

He turned into the cave, and they fetched out 
the can of beef they had opened yesterday, 
some biscuits, and a water breaker, arid, sitting 
at the cave mouth, they ate just as the men of 
the Stone Age ate, with the palms of their hands 
for plates and their fingers for forks. They spoke 
scarcely at all. The ill-humour of La Touche 
seemed like a contagious disease ; even Bompard, 
the imperturbable, seemed glum. 

It was the girl who broke the strain. 

Suddenly she began to speak, as if giving 
voice to carefully thought-out ideas. Yet what 

H. de V«re Sit^cv^^ 



she said was absolutely spontaneous, the result 
of a quick, educated mind suddenly grasping 
the essentials of their position, suggestion 
breeding suggestion. 

" We want food, for one thing ; our provisions 
won't last for ever." 

" There's rabbits enough," said Bompard. 
" Remember those rabbits we saw running out 
on the beach last evening ? " 

" I can snare rabbits all right," said La Touche, 
" but where's the wire to make snares with ? 
See; we're caught everywhere." 
" Wait," said Bompard. 

He got up and went down to the boat, hunted 
in one of the lockers, and returned with a spool 
of wire. 

He flung it at La Touche. 
" There's your wire," said he. 
Cleo's eyes brightened ; the spool of wire 
seemed to her a fruit suddenly born from her 
words. She had accomplished something ; it 
was perhaps the first real accomplishment in 
her life. 

11 Where did you get it from ? " asked La 

" The forward locker," replied Bompard. 
" Are there any other things in the locker ? " 
asked the girl. 

" Oh, mon Dicu, yes," replied the old fellow. 
" There's a lot of truck, but it's no use to us." 

" Let's go and see," said Geo. She rose up 
and came down the beach followed by the others. 
The wind from the mountains had died away, 
but the sea torment remained, and, though the 
tide was beginning to ebb, the spray of the waves 
almost reached the boat. 

It had been listed to one side by the Wooley, but 
was undamaged, and the forward locker was still 
open as it had been left by the careless Bompard. 
It was one of the boats used for fishing and 
deep-sea work, hence the contents of the locker : 
a fisherman's knife in its sheath with belt, a 
paternoster, invaluable for the fathoms of 
fishing-line attached, a small American axe 
with the head vaselined, a canvas housewife 
with sail-needles, a few darning needles and 
some pack thread, and a number of odds and 
ends, including some extra heavy lead sinkers. 

Bompard looked on apathetically, and La 
Touche stood with his hands in his pockets, as 
the girl fished the things out one by one, placing 
them, some on the sands and some on the 
thwarts of the boat. 

The things seemed to have no interest for the 
men ; accustomed all their lives to being looked 
after as far as shelter and food were concerned, 
they seemed absolutely helpless in front of new 
conditions. Men are like that, especially men 
of the people, and when you read of Crusoes and 
their wonderful doings on desert islands you 
read Romance. 

The quick, trained mind of the girl seemed to 
see clearly where they could scarcely see at all. 
She had imagination, and she was a woman — 
that is to say, a being more gifted than man, 
with prevision in affairs purely material. 

Bompard did not see any use in the axe, and 
said so. The girl, with her hand resting on the 

gunwale of the boat, stood like a housekeeper 
trying to explain to a mere male creature the 
use ot some household implement. 

" We will want a fire, and an axe will chop 
wood," said she. 

" Aye, and where are you to get the wood ? " 
asked La Touche. " There's not a tree on this 
blessed place, nor the sign of one." 

" Well, we shall have to look — there may be 
trees inland, there's sure to be bushes of some 
sort — anyhow, we will take these things up to 
the cave, they will be safer there." 

The baling-tin of the boat caught her eye; 
she included it amongst her prizes. 

This baling-tin, like a psychological instru- 
ment, exhibited the mind of Bompard as though 
that said mind had been scooped out and placed 
in it. 

To him it was a baling-tin ; here there were do 
boats to be baled out — where was the use of it ? 

To the woman it was a possible pot to boil 
things in if they could get a fire and things to 

She explained, and Bompard saw the light. 
La Touche saw it, too, but promptly pointed 
out that they had no fire and nothing to boil. 
He seemed to find an odious satisfaction in the 
fact, a satisfaction which Bompard faintly 
reflected, and for a moment the girl seemed to 
glimpse in the two men a lethargy of mind 
almost unthinkable. A lethargy and laziness, 
mulish, and kicking at anything that disturbed 
it— that actually fought against betterment 
because betterment meant exercise of intellect 
and action. 

Cleo, standing and shading her eyes, looked 
away up and down the beach as though measuring 
its possibilities. 

Then they brought the things up_ to the cave, 
and the men lit their pipes. 

" I'm sure there must be lots of food to bfe 
found here on the beach," said she. " Then 
there is a big break in the cli Js lower down that 
seems to lead inland. I think the best thing we 
can do is to start now and hunt about and see 
what we can find. You two can go inland, and 
I will go along the beach. It's absolutely necessary 
to find some sort of food, and wood to make a 

The smokers were disposed to argue. 

But a will was at work stronger than theirs, 
and presently, tapping out their pipes, they 
rose up. 

The cliff break was a narrow gully piercing 
the basalt and bending upon itself ; here they 
parted, the men striking up the gully, and the 
girl continuing her way along the beach. 
* " And be sure to look out for some wood/, 
she cried after them ; " any sort of wood." 

" Aye, aye," said Bompard, " we'll be on the 
look-out right enough." 

Then they vanished, and she pursued her way 
alone, picking up things as she went, turning 
over shells and thinking of her companions. 

The wind had fanned up again to a strong 
breeze, but the sound of the surf had fallen 
with the receding tide, and the stretch of wet 
sand below_ high tide-mark was strewn with 

below high tide-mark was 




huge keip- 
ribbons, masses 
of seaweed, 
shells, all 
empty, cuttle- 
fish bones, and 
star -fish- 
Then she saw 
the penguins. 
She had not 
noticed them 
before. They 
were drawn up 
in long lines at 
the base -of the 
cliff, and the 
sight of them 
destroyed the 
sense of desola- 
tion which was 
oppressing her. 

She watched 
them for a 
wliile, and then 
went on. She 
had no time to 
waste; the 
thought of 
coining back 
empty - handed 
alter all her 
talk to the men 
pursued her. 
She was look- 
ing for food and had found none — nothing 
but the star-fish. 

She had neared the rock surface now 
that stretched a. way level and smooth, 
broken by crack* and pot -holes and strewn 
here and there with weed. 

It was like looking at Silence herself, silenct 
set off and explained by the beach noises, the 
sound of tho surf, the calling of the terns, the 
mewing of the great white gulls. 

She saw Kerguelen as it is, as it was, as it 
ever will be, Standing there alone, she saw it 
for the first time in all its utter nakedness. 1 
no food were to be found on the busy beach, 
what food could be found in that carved, silent, 
cruel land where not a single tree showed in all 
the miles of desolation ? 

Where the sand met the rocks a huge 
conical stone- stood with a gull roosting on its 
top, and just as a person fixes on some object 
as the limit of their walk, she determined to go 
as far as this stone and then turn batk. 

As she drew close to it the gull flapped its 
wings and flew away, and she saw that the thing 
was not a stone, but the figure-head of a ship, 
the form of a woman with ample breasts, broken 
and scarred by years ol weather. The arms were 
gone, but the great face remained almost in its 
entirety, staring away across tht sands and 
the sea. 

It had once worn a crown, but the crown was 
broken away all but a little bit on the left side 
of the head, and it had an appearance of life 
that almost daunted the girl as she stood looking, 


watching it, and listening to the singing sound 
of the beach echoes and the mewing and crying 
of the gulls. 

Then, as she moved closer, her foot struck on 
something half buried in the sand. It was a 
baulk of timber ; ship's timber was all about, 
sanded over, and in places half uncovered. 
Here was firewood enough for twenty years. In 
the figure-head alone there was enough to supply 
their wants for a long time to come. 

She sat down to rest on a projecting piece of 
this timber near the figure. Close up to it like 
this it lost its touch of life and became simply & 
block of wood, and itroixi this point she could 

see tim\WfrrafflWfc.dr ^ traveUed 



stretching away and away to the Lizard Point 
with the foani breaking around it and flown 
about by the never-resting gulls. 

She had come nearly three miles, and she had 
found something worth finding by just keeping 

. She rose up, and before starting back she 
glanced inland towards the mountains across the 
broken country. 

Then she shaded her eyes. 

Beyond the fringe of the beach, and amongst 
the high broken rocks, stood a cross. 



The thing itself startled her less than the fact 
that she had not seen it before. It was as 
though it had been put up whilst she sat to rest. 

It was so striking, so palpably evident, that 
anyone coming along towards the figure-head 
as she had done must have been attracted by 
it. To verify this she walked a few yards away, 
and even as she did so the cross vanished, shut 
out from sight by the rock to the left of it. 
Only from the point of view of the figure-head 
could it be seen. 

It was as though the beach had tried to 
frighten her again. 

She came towards it, noticing, as she came, 
the shortness of the arms. It was less a cross 
than a sign-post — a sign-post raised on a mound 
of small rocks. It was tarred to preserve it 
from the weather ; from the left limb close to* 
the post a metal box was hanging by a wire, 
and on the post itself, a few feet from the base, 
there was a plate of galvanized iron nailed to 
the wood. On the plate were stamped some 

She stepped up on the mound and read : 
DON'T DISTURB. 19— ." 

The date was three years back. 

The cache, whatever it might be, was under 
the mound ; also, this thing had evidently 
nothing to do with the wreck, for the embossed 
metal plate must have been prepared in, some 
civilized country for the purpose to which it had 
been put. 

She reached up and tried to detach the box, 
and, pulling on it, brought down the slat of 
wood that formed the arms of the cross, the 
nails that had held it having rusted away, v 

Then, having detached the box, she examined 
it. It was an ordinary sailor's tobacco-box. 
She pressed the spring, opened it, and found a 
piece of paper folded in four, and inscribed as 
follows, the writing done with a purple indelible 
pencil : — 

Opened the each. 
Took nu thing out. 
Stuck in som ex try goods. 
Put the ship about. 
To any one that finds it in this darned hole. 
Sam Slocum, 

Master Mariner. Thresher 19 — . 

Then, as an afterthought • — 

Keep up your spirits. 

The date was a year after the date on the 
Vol. IviL-14. 

post. The cache had not been visited evidently 
since then. 

She walked round the mound to a spot where 
the covering rocks had fallen away a bit, and, 
going down on her knees, began pulling them 
apart and carrying them off one by one, dump- 
ing them a few yards away. Her rings hindered 
her, and, taking them off, she put them in the 
tobacco-box and the box in her pocket. Under 
the rocks lay a covering of sand. She fetched the 
arm of the cross, and scraping away at the sand 
came upon something hard. It was the end of 
a barrel. Then she stood up, flushed with her 
work — and satisfied. 

The stores were there, whatever they might 
be, and with the help of the two men .they 
could easily be uncovered. The question whether 
they would be of any use after all the years they 
had lain there occurred to her, but she put it 
aside. They would soon see. 

Then she started back for the caves, taking 
the slat of wood with her as a trophy. 

When she reached the caves the men had not 
yet returned ; leaving the slat of wood leaning, 
against the cliff, she came down to the boat and 
stood for a moment looking "at the sea. The 
tide was far out now and coming in again, the 
sea had fallen to a gentle, glassy swell, and the 
. treacherous wind had died away to a faint 
breeze. Out there where the waves were coming 
in and at the limit of the sands rocks were un- 
covered : shaggy, black rocks that seemed covered 
with fur. She came down to them and found 
that the fur was a coating of mussels. Here was 
another find. She began to pick them, and then, 
running back to the cave for the baling-tin, filled 
it to the brim, and placed it in the boat. Having 
done this, she sat down with her back to the 
boat to rest and wait for the men. 

Her hands went up to her hair and began to 
arrange it as best they could. Had she been 
alone on the beach she would have taken the 
pins out and left it loose for the winds to comb 
and blow about, but the thought of the men 
prevented her. She did not like the idea of 
them seeing her going about with her hair down ; 
after her experiences in the boat it seemed 
absurd to quibble over a thing like this, and she 
tried to argue with herself without avail. It 
seemed to her that if she went about in niglige 
like that she would lower herself. How ? There 
was nothing unwomanly in flowing hair, there 
was nothing indelicate. No, but women of her 
class never appeared before men in that fashion 
— she would lower herself socially. 

A fool would have laughed at her, holding 
that amidst castaways there was no such thing 
as social position, and. though fools are not 
inevitably wrong in their opinions, he would 
have been wrong. 

Though Bompard and La Touche had dropped 
the " mademoiselle " in addressing her, they 
treated her since landing with a certain respect 
which would have been wanting had she been a 
woman of their own class. 

The class difference held, and was a greater 
protection to her than anything else. In their 
eyes she was no!: a woman, but a lady, a fact that 




chilled familiarity, or worse, and, with the aid 
of her superior intelligence, gave her authority. 

She felt this instinctively, and determined 
that at no time and in no manner would she 
allow her position to degrade. 

Then, having done what she could to her hair, 
she took the rings from the tobacco-box and put 
them on. She would have much preferred not to 
have worn them, they irritated her; but they 
were part of her insignia and she put them on. 

A shout caused her to turn* It was the men. 
They were coming along the beach from the 
break in the cliffs ; Bompard leading, La Touche 
lagging behind. 

Bompard was carrying something under his 
arm. It was a Kerguelen cabbage* La Touche 
carried nothing. 



When she lay down that night on the hard sand 
with the sailcloth beneath her head, she could 
not sleep. The wretchedness of having to lie 
down fully dressed, of being unable to change 
her clothes, fell on her like a blight. 

She Jay fighting the problem. It was impos- 
sible to go on like this ; one might live with 
little food, but to live always, without undressing 
and changing one's things was impossible. This 
problem was insoluble, or seemed so. Then she 
found a half-solution. She would discard her 
stockings and under garments, make a bundle 
of them, and put them under the sailcloth ; she 
would not wear them again. She would suffer 
from cold I No matter, anything was better than 
that feeling of being fully dressed always. The 
weather,, besides, was fairly warm. She would 
learn, to. do without shoes as well as without 
stockings. She would have to go about without 
shoes or stockings. She thought of the men. 
Strangely enough, the thought of going about 
without shoes or stockings seemed less repulsive 
to her than the thought of going about with 
her hair loose. 

As she lay revolving this business in her mind 
the whale birds, flitting about in the darkness 
outside, suddenly ceased their crying, and through 
the silence came a vague mysterious sound that 
deepened into a humming like the drone of a 
gigantic top ; the humming became a roar, the 
roar of rain. Rain "falling in solid sheets, coming 
across the land like a moving Niagara, now taking 
the beach and now the sea. Never had she 
heard such rain as this, falling in the black and 
utter darkness. The shelve of the beach saved 
the cave from being flooded and the beetling of 
the cliff kept it dry, but it could not keep out 
the rain smell, the raw smell of Kerguelen 
carried from inland. Then after a bit the first 
great onslaught slackened. 

The girl raised herself on her elbow ; then she 
rose and cast off the oilskin coat that had served 
for a blanket. She undressed in the darkness, 
made a bundle of her stockings and her Jaeger 
underclothes, and placed them beneath the 
sailcloth ; then, removing the comb from her 
hair and letting it fall, she came out into the 
blackness and stood in the torrential rain. 

by Google 

It beat on her head and shoulders and breast, 
it cascaded down her limbs, soothing as the hand 
of mesmerism, refreshing, delightful beyond 
words. Then she came back into the cave and, 
finding Fome cotton-waste they had saved from 
the boat, dried herself as well as she could, 
dried her hair and twisted it into a knot, put 
on her blouse, coat, and skirt, and covered 
herself with the oilskin. 

/ She had solved the question of a bath and 
change of clothes, at least, for the moment — the 
discomfort of the rough tweed of the skirt 
against her unprotected limbs, of the hard bed, 
of the sailcloth pillow, with its vague smell of 
canvas and jute, all these were nothing to that 
other discomfort. These were physical, that 
was psychical. 

She fell asleep and slept till long after dawn. 
When she came Out the rain had ceased, and, 
through air fresh as though from the hand of 
Creation, vast clouds were rolling away towards 
the islands over a blue-green sea. 

She had told the men of the cache overnight, 
and, to her wonder, the thing had interested 
them, and this morning> when they had finished 
their biscuits and beef, she found not the slightest 
difficulty in making them .start. 

She put on her boots for the journey, and then 
they strolled along the beach in the usual order, 
Cleo first, the two others following. The figure- 
head when they reachec' it held them entirely in 
its spell. 

She oould scarcely tear them away. They 
discussed it from every point of view, argued 
over it, pondered over it, and were only brought 
to their senses by a hint that it would have to 
be chopped -up for firewood. 

Then, when they reached the cache, .there 
was another long pause for discussion, the 
two sitting down to smoke whilst they talked 
it over. 

It was not till she set to work pulling more 
stones away that they began to get busy, then, 
when once started, they laboured like negroes. 
The glimpse of the barrel end seemed to inflame 
them, but indeed they did not want even that, 
for the business they had set their hands to had 
all the fascination of treasure-hunting mixed 
with the thrills of house-breaking. Here was 
" stuff," plunder of some sort, who could tell 
what ? 

An hour and a half of labour brought them 
sweating to the end of the business, and the 
presiding gulls saw exposed to the light of day 
two big barrels, two long cases, and an amount 
of canned meat and vegetables enough to stock 
a small shop, also a harpoon of the old type, and 
two shovels placed by the long cases. Then, 
after a rest of half an hour, the barrels were 
sampled. One contained flour, the other blankets 
and men's clothes : sweaters and coats and 
trousers. One of the long cases contained 
kitchen utensils and tin cups and plates, also 
knives and forks and spoons. 

The other contained " comforts." tea and 
coffee and sugar in sealed tins, some rolls of 
tobacco, drugs, and a few surgical instruments 
— all the equipment, in fact, necessary for an 

■_■ l l '_| 1 1 l u l 1 \s 



expedition of a dozen men for six months. Not joyed by the details of the Hud than the mariners 
a drop of liquor, Bompard, considering the difficulty of trans 

J W haps that wag why the girl was moreover- porting the stuif to the caves, proposed thai 




they should move their abode right up to the 

Cleo pointed out that there were no caves 
here, so, unless they moved the caves as well as 
their belongings, they would have nowhere to 
sleep in. 

I I think the best thing we can do," said she, 
"is to take what we want and then cover up 
the rest till we want some more." 

" Put the stuff under the rocks again ? " asked 

" Yes." 

•' Mon Dieu I " said La Touche. 

It was not what he said, but the way he said 
it, that angered the girl. 

La Touche was a problem in her mind. She 
could understand Bompard, but she could not 
quite understand La Touche. It seemed to her 
that he was one of those people who, without 
much intelligence, yet, or perhaps because of 
that fact, make fine centres of rebellion. She 
could fancy him leading a mob to tear down 
something that vexed him, and everything 
seemed to vex him at times. 

But though she was not clear about La Touche, 
she was quite clear about herself, and she was 
determined to be his master. She felt instinc- 
tively that he was the leader of Bompard, and 
that Bompard alone would have been a much 
better individual in many respects. 

II There is no use in saying ' Mon Dieu' " said 
she; " the thing has to be done. The gulls and 
the rabbits will ruin everything if we leave 
things about. Come, Bompard." 

Bompard rose up at the order, and began to 
assist in sorting out the things they were to 
take back with them. Then La Touche, not to 
l>e out of the business and perhaps ashamed of 
himself, or of his position as an idler, joined in. 

Had she given the order direct to him he might 
have revolted ; she had conquered^him for the 
moment none the less. 

First they began to sort out the things to be 
kept for immediate use. A saucepan, three tin 
cups, three tin plates, knives and forks, the 
teapot and kettle, a canister of tea, sugar, and 
salt. The canned stuff, including cans of 
vegetables, Cleo left untouched. She deter- 
mined to keep it in reserve and depend upon 
the cabbage plants, one of which Bompard had 
brought back yesterday. 

Then came the question of the flour ; that, 
too, must be kept in reserve, and the opening 
they had made in the top of the barrel closed 
up properly. This operation took time, and was 
conducted with a good deal of grumbling, which 
fell on deaf ears. The thing was done, and that 
was the main thing. Four blankets were taken 
from the other barrel, and that, too, was closed. 
Then with the shovels the whole lot was sanded 
over and the rocks replaced, the girl helping in 
the work as well as directing. 

When everything was finished they made 
three bundles, using the blankets as hold-alls, 
and started back. 

It was now noon and the breeze that had been 
blowing ever, since dawn had died away, but 
great clouds were banking up over the islands, 

vast, solemn, leaden-coloured clouds rolling up 
from the far sea and piling one on the other like 
alps on alps. 

They had nearly reached the caves when a 
roll of thunder like the ruffle of muffled drums 
came over the water ; but they got under shelter 
before the rain began to fall, just a few heavy- 
drops at first, and then in a moment a cataract. 

The islands vanished, the sea vanished to 
within a few hundred yards of the beach, the 
voices of the gulls and the breaking of the waves 
became merged and vague in the hiss of the 
sheeting rain. 

A fire was impossible owing to the rain, so 
they dined off biscuits and canned stuff — cold. 
* When the meal was finished Cleo put the 
plates out in the rain to wash them. Then a 
bright idea came to her, and, getting the roll 
of wire, she asked La Touche to show her how 
to make rabbit snares. 

La Touche took the roll of wire and held it in 
his hands for a moment. 

" This is all very well," said he, " but where 
is your wire-cutters ? " 

They had nothing to cut the wire with, and he 
seemed to look on the fact as a triumph of his 
own cleverness over Cleo's, till Bompard inter- 
vened and showed how, by knotting the wire 
and pulling hard, a break might be made. This 
accomplished, and three lengths of wire having 
been procured, the surly one proceeded to make 
a snare and to demonstrate how it might be set. 

At the^nd of the business the girl regretted 
that she had ever started it. She had put 
herself under the tuition of La Touche, and 
allowed the intimacy of master and pupil, 
allowed even in this slight way that he was her 



Next morning broke fine. She was awakened 
by voices quarrelling, and came out to find a 
breezy and absolutely cloudless day, with the 
sea running smooth and the sunlight on the far 

The two men, who had fallen out over some 
trifle, were wrangling like fish-women, Bompard 
having the worst of it, as his ineffectual Southern 
oaths were no match for the language of the 

The girl stood looking at La Touche, but he 
seemed not to mind in the least. 

Then she turned away and walked down to 
the boat. 

She heard Bompard say : " There, you have 
sent her off, talking like that,** and what La 
Touche replied she could not hear, but she 
guessed it was something not complimentary to 
Bompard or herself. 

The boat was half-full of rain-water. She 
rinsed her hands in it ; then, standing with the 
warm sun upon her, she almost forgot the men, 
looking at the purple islands and the gulls like 
new minted gold, and the great arc of the bay 
lined out with a thread of creamy foam. 

Then, after a while, turning round, she saw 
that Bomp&idllRwttst lighting a fire with the 




remains of the 
wood, and, 
coming up. she 
helped in the 

He had ar- 
ranged the 
little tire be- 
tween pieces of 
rock so as to 
make a stand 
fur the kettle , 
and La louche 
was opening 
the hermetic - 
canister of tea 
with his knife ; 
neither m a n 
was speaking, 
and the mc:U 
passed off al- 
most in silence. 

She felt that 
any moment 
the quarrel 
might break 
out again, and 
her instinct 
was to get 
away trom 

She had left 
tht fisherman. *s 
knife and belt 
in her cave ; 
she went to 
the cave and 
strapped th* 
belt around 
her waist. The 
boat-hook was 
lying on the 
sand, she 
picked it up 
and, carrying 
it, walked 
away down tlw 
beach in th(* 
direction of 
the cache. 

The boat- 
hook was a 
weapon of sorts, and it was better out of the 
men's way \ the knife was different : it had 
come to her that* in this place it was better to 
be armed, and she determined always to wear it. 

But no sounds of quarrelling followed her, 
only the quarrelling of the gulls, and, hall a mile 
away, looking back, she saw that the men had 
separated. La Touche was standing by the boat 
and Bompard was walking towards the Lizard 
Point. She sat down to rest for a moment, and 
she watched the figure of Bompard. It grew 
smaller and smaller till it reached the point, 
then it vanished over the rocks. 

She saw La Touche walk away towards the 
caves ; he disappeared, and the beach, now 


d e« t i t u t e of 
life, lay sung 
to by the sea 
and flown over 
by the gulls. 

r ftuW ( j_ 



S ome time 
later she began 
to retrace her 
steps, and as 
she drew near 
the caves she 
looked lor the 
men, hut the 
beach was de- 
serted,. Then, 
looking into 
the men's cave, 
she saw La 
Touche lying 
on his back 
7^ asleep, his pipe 
beside him, 
and his arm 
flung across his 

Where was 
Bompard ? 

He ought to 
have been back 
by this, and, 
as she turned 
and looked up 
and down the 
beach, a vague 
came upon her- 
She remem- 
bered now that 
he had talked 
about sea 
birds' eggs, 
and how to get 
them. Might 
he have gone 
hunting f or 
eggs over 
those cliffs and 
fallen ? 

She remembered also, when the two men had 
come back from their expedition inland, they 
had brought an alarming story of a bog like a 
quicksand, La Touche had blundered into it. 
and he would have gone down but for his com- 
panion. They had also said something about 
pot holes like shafts in the basalt* She turned 
her mind away from these thoughts and, passing 
her fingers through her hair p removed the comb 
which held it in a rough knot, shaking it free to 
the sun and wind. She combed it with her 
fingers and re-arranged it, and then looked 
again — not hi n g + 

Jt came to her suddenly that, though she 
were to siOl4t!Wa|ffrOHYer a the vigil would 




be useless, that Bompard had gone — never to 

Then she noticed that La Touche was again 
, awake. 

" What has become of Bompard ? " she asked. 
" Have you seen him since he went off this 
morning over those rocks ? " 

" Bompard " replied the other. " Mon Dieut 
How do I know ? No, 1 have not seen him ; he 
is big enough to take care of himself." 

" That may be," she replied, " but accidents 
happen no matter how big a man may be. He 
has not returned." 

" So it would seem," said La Touche, who was 
busy turning the contents of a tin on to a plate. 
" But he will return when he remembers that 
it is dinner-time." 

Her lips were dry with anger ;. there was . a 
contained insolence in the manner and voice of 
the other that roused her as much as his callous- 
ness. His mind seemed as cold as his pale blue 
eyes. All her mixed feelings towards him 
focused suddenly into a point — she loathed 
him ; but she held herself in. 

" If he has not returned when we have finished 
dinner," said she, " we shall have to look for 
him." She took a plate and some of the beef he 
had turned from the tin and, with a couple of 
biscuits, drew off, and taking her place outside 
in the sun began her wretched meal. 

When she had finished eating she put the 
plate by her side and sat waiting for La Touche 
to make a movement. 

Bompard that mprning had left his tinder-box 
behind him in the cave ; she heard the strike 
of flint on steel. La Touche was lighting his 
pipe. She waited ten minutes or more, then 
she came to the cave mouth. 

" Are you not coming to look for Bompard ? " 
asked she. 

M I'll go when I choose/' said he. " I don't 
want orders." 

" I gave you no orders," she replied. " I 
asked you are you not coming to look for Bom- 
pard, who may be in difficulties, or lying perhaps 
with a broken limb — and you sit there smoking 
your pipe. But I give you orders now : get up, 
and come and help to look for him. Get up at 

He sprang to his feet and came right out. It 
seemed to her that, she had never seen him 
before. This was the real La Touche. 

" One word more from you," he shouted, 
" and I'll show you who's master. You ! Talk 
to me, would you ! A woman more trouble than 
you're worth ; off with you, get down the beach 
—clear ! " 

He took a step forward with his right fist 
ready to strike, open-handed. Then he drew 
back. She had whipped the knife from its 

The boat-hook, which she had brought back 
with her, was propped against the cliff behind 
her and out of his reach. He had no weapon. 

She did not add a word to the threat of the 
knife. He stood like a fool, unable to sustain 
her gaze, venomous, yet held, as a snake is held 
by a man's grip. ^GOOgk 

" Now," she said, " get on. Go and search 
for your companion, and if you dare to speak 
to me again like that I will make you repent it. 
You thought I was weak, being a. woman and 
alone. You were going to strike. Coward ! 
Get on, go and search for your companion." 

He turned suddenly and walked off towards 
the Lizard rocks. " I'll go where I choose," 
said he. 

It was a lame and impotent end of his rebellion, 
but she held no delusions. This was only the 
beginning — if Bompard did not return. 

She put the knife in its sheath and then she 
put the boat-hook away, biding it behind the 
sailcloth in her cave. Then she went into the 
men's cave. La Touche 's clasp- kmie lay there 
on the sand ; it was not much o£ a wjeappn, but 
she took it. She examined the <ttnner^ knives 
again. They were almost useless as weapons. 
Then she came out again. La Touche had dis- 
appeared beyond the rocks and she came to 
the boat. There was nothing here in the way 
of a weapon that he might use, unless the oars. 
They were heavy, but he was strong. She 
determined to leave nothing to chance, and 
carrying the oars down the beach to the break 
in the cliffs, she hid them amongst some scrub 
bushes. Then she remembered the axe, sought 
for it, and hid it. 

Then she came back and sat down tp reconsider 
matters. - 

The position was as bad as could be. " 

As bad as La Touche. Once let this; man get 
the upper hand and she was lost. Shoe "would be 
his slave — and worse; She had measured hi m 
finely. Instinct, never at fault, told her that to 
pull down anything above him would be meat 
and drink to La Touche 's true nature, and that 
his hatred of her superiority was deepened by 
the fact that she was a woman. 

Were she weak he would beat her and make 
her cook for him, trample on her, make her his 
woman to fetch and carry, and, ii Bompard did 
not come back, she was here alone with him, and 
would have to fight this thing out. 

Well, she could not fight it by brooding over 
it, and she was not helping to look for Bompard. 

She drew the knife from its sheath and held 
the eight inches of razor-sharp steel balanced in 
her hand for a moment as though admiring it. 
Then she replaced it in the sheath, and started 
towards the Lizard Point. 



From the highest shoulder of the point she could 
see La Touche clambering over the seaward 

He seemed more in search of shells and sea- 
weed than of Bompard. Then, climbing down, 
she reached the lower ground and struck off 
inland. If she did not succeed in finding 
Bompard, she would at least succeed in avoid- 
ing La Touche. 

Right from the Lizard Point the plain stretched 
to higher ground which marked the beginning 
of the sea cli%, fjreat roclcu strewed the way, and 









the ground was torn by the beds of small water- 
courses, depressions that would suddenly become 
little rivers in the deluging rains ; stunted bushes 
huddled as if for shelter at the rock bases, and 
the voice of the sea came here, broken and mixing 
with the whisper of the bushes to the wind. 

She crossed the plain. 

This place had once been a glacier bed — 
rounded boulders standing in pools of water 
told that. 

A gull flying in from the sea and carrying a 
fish in its beak drew her attention : it was being 
pursued by a larger gull. 

As they passed the fish dropped, fell on a 
patch of yellow ground just in front of the girl, 
sank, and vanished. 

She stopped dead, and drew back with a chill 
at her heart. Then she picked up a stone and 
cast it on the patch of ground. It vanished even 
more swiftly than the fish. 

It was one of the bogs the men had spoken 
of. They had described the treacherous ground 
as white ; this was yellowish, and not very 
noticeable ; it was also death, and another dozen 
steps would have led her into it. 

She advanced cautiously, reached the border 
line, and, kneeling down, pushed her hand into 
the yellow mud. It was like pushing it into a 
cold, slimy mouth. * She could scarcely draw it 
out again. When she did the mud was clinging 
to her hand like a yellow glove. 

She came back to one of the rock ponds and 
washed her hand ; it was like trying to get rid 
of treacle, and, as she washed, she tried to fancy 
what would have happened but for the gull ; 
tried to picture herself being slowly pulled down 
into that cold darkness and entombed there 
for ever. 

Then, skirting the place of danger, she went 
on cautiously, examining carefully the ground 
before her. She had not gone ten yards when 
it seemed to her that a patch right in front of 
her was ever so slightly darker and moister- 
looking than the ground she was treading. 

She picked up a stone and cast it on the patch. 
It vanished. Then she knew the feeling of the 
man who finds himself ambuscaded. 

This place was a death-trap, or, rather, a 
series of death-traps ; there might be pits lying 
in wait for her quite unnoticeable. She turned 
and began to retrace her steps, so shaken that 
she would not trust even the ground she had 
already covered, but kept testing it by casting 
stones before her. 

From a little distance an observer might have 
fancied her engaged in some new sort of game. 

Near the safety of the Lizard rocks her eyes, 
closely scanning the ground before her, caught 
sight of something. It was a half-burnt match. 
No one else but Bompard could have dropped 
that match. He had started without his tinder- 
box, had evidently found that match in his 
pocket, lit his pipe, and walked on. There was 
only one direction in which ho would have 
walked unless he had struck inland, which was 
improbable. He would have made, as she had 
made, to cross to the higher ground. 

Even if he had walked inland he would not 

Digitized by dOOgle 

have escaped, for, casting her eyes in that 
direction, she could see yellow patches spreading 
between the rocks. 

She knew now what had become of Bompard, 
and with lips dry, as pumice-stone she began to 
climb till she reached the point where she' had 
sat that morning. If the mud had taken 
Bompard, had he cried out ? If so. La Touch© 
would have heard his cries, for the caves were 
not so far from the Lizard rocks. 

La Touche was nowhere to be seen, but she 
had no fear about him, or only the fear that he 
would come back. ' Bompard was gone. Bom- 
pard was dead, she knew it as though she had 
seen him engulfed, and she was here alone, in 
this place, with La Touche. - 

She put her hand to her side automatical! y, 
to make sure that the knife was there. Then 
she sat with her eyes fixed on the distant islands, 
haze-purple, in the light of the westering sun. 

The thought of the boat on the beach came 
to her with the idea that she might launch it 
and escape, make for the islands, and put all 
that sea between herself and the man she hated. 
But she could not launch the boat single-handed, 
and, if she could, it would have been impossible 
to work it single-handed with those big oars. 

She came back to the beach. It wanted still 
a couple of hours of sun-down. There was no 
sign yet of La Touche, but, just as she knew in 
her heart that Bompard was dead, she knew 
that La Touche was all right. He had been 
keeping to the rocks by the sea ; leaving that 
aside, she knew that he would come back. He 
was of the sort that remains unscathed when 
the better man is taken. 

She had one dread — that La Touche might 
get the knife from her, throw it away, and be 
master by his superior strength. 

She had his clasp-knife in her pocket, but it 
was a thing of little account in a s struggle. Well, 
she must be on her guard. Then came the 
thought : " But how can I be on my guard 
when I am asleep ? " 

Nothing would be easier, if he were really in 
earnest, than for him to creep upon her whilst 
she slept and disarm her. 

With her mind filled by these thoughts she 
set to work getting supper ready. La Touche 
had taken the tinder-box with him, so a fire was 
out of the question, and she contented herself 
by laying out what remained of the beef that 
had served for dinner and some biscuits. 

Then she saw that she had only laid two 
plates. Working half -unconsciously, she had 
ruled Bompard out. She looked at the things 
lying there on the sand, then she turned away 
from them. La Touche had crossed the rocks 
and was coming along the beach. He was 
trailing a long ribbon of seaweed he had picked * 
up. and as he drew closer she saw that he had 
left his ill-humour behind him. 

" There was no sight of Bompard," said he. 
" He has not come back, then ? " 

" Bompard will not come back," replied the 
girl;' 1 we shall never see him again. " 

Then she told of the death-traps beyond the 
rocks, and of the match. 




La Touche listened, standing, and still holding 
the ribbon of seaweed in his lingers. 

She could see that he believed what she said, 
and yet his words gave the lie to what was in 
his face. 

" Ob, Bompard will come back all right," 
said he. " He's not such a fool as to get into 
any of those bogs. He's sulking that's all." 

" No," said she, " he will never come back, 
and you know it." 

She turned away from him. Dusk was now 
falling, and as she entered her cave the wind 
from the sea suddenly fell dead. Almost imme- 
diately it begpii to blow again, but now from the 
land, and, as though this land wind were spreading 
a pall over the sky, darkness fell suddenly, and 
with the darkness she could hear the rain coming 
with the sound she had heard once before like 
the murmuring of a great top spun by a giant. 

Then the rain burst on the beach with a roar 
through which came the hiss of the rain-swept 

The sound was almost welcome. As she lay 
in the darkness it seemed like a protecting wall 
between herself and La Touche. La Touches 
ill-temper would have disturbed her less than 
his cheerfulness and amiability, born so suddenly 
and from no apparent reasons. She had deter- 
mined not to sleep, and she had lain down fully 
dressed even to the oilskin coat and with her 
boots on ; to-morrow she would go off and hide 
amongst the bushes beyond the cliff -break and 
get some sleep, but to-night she would not close 
her eyes, so she told herself. 

She had taken the Imife from its sheath and 
placed it beside her ; her hand rested on it. 
An hour passed, and now, as she lay listening 
to the pouring of the rain, her fingers felt the 
pattern of the hilt. The hilt was striated cross- 
ways to give a better grip, and as her fingers 
wandered up and down the striations, the cross- 
bars of a ladder were suggested to her. The 
steady pouring of the rain seemed to work on 
this idea and make it more real. Then she was 
climbing a ladder set against the cliffs. La 
Touche was holding it at the foot, and Bompard 
was waiting for her at the cliff top. He helped 
her up, and then the dream changed to some- 
thing else, and to something else, till she woke 
suddenly to the recognition that she had been 
asleep for a long time, and that fear, deadly 
fear, was clutching her by the throat. 

She sat up, leaning on her elbow. The rain 
was still falling, though the sound of it was much 
less, and the blackness was so intense that it 

seemed moulded round her. She felt for the 
knife and found it. Then she lay down again, 

The tide was coming in and she recognized, 
and not for the first time, a curious singing, 
chanting echo that always accompanied the 
waves ol the incoming tide. 

Fear is reasonless — it is also Protean — and 
this sea voice coming through the night turned 
the fear of La Touche to the fear of Bompard. 
What if he were to return, cold and wet, from 
that terrible graveyard beyond the rocks ? 



As she lay, listening, through the black darkness 
and the singing of the sea came a faint sound as 
of something dragging itself along the sand at 
the cave entrance. She clutched the knife and 
sat up. A waft of wind brought with it a tang 
of stale tobacco and rain- wet clothes. It was 
La Touche. 

She drew up her feet and sat crouched against 
the sailcloth, the knife half-held in her lap, her 
fingers nerveless, her mind paralyzed with the 
knowledge that now, immediately, she would 
have to fight, that the Beast was all but upon 
her. She knew. 

She could hear him breathing now, and the 
faint sound of his hands feeling gently over the 
floor of the cave. He was searching for her, 
the fume of him filled the place, he was almost* 
in touch with her ; yet still she sat helpless as 
a little child, paralyzed in the blackness, as a 
bird before a crawling cat. Yet her right hand, 
as though endowed with a volition of its own, 
was tightening its grasp upon the hilt of the knife. 

She had no longer reasoning power. Reason- 
ing power and energy seemed now in the pos- 
session of the knife. 

Then something touched her left boot, and at 
the touch her hand struck out into the darkness, 
blindly and furiously, driving the knife home 
to the hilt in something that fell with a choking 
sound across her feet. She forced her feet from 
the thing that had suddenly fallen on them, 
rose, sprang across it, and passed through the 
cave entrance with the surety of a person moving 
in broad daylight. 

Then the pouring rain on her face brought 
her to her full senses and recognition of what 
had happened. 

The knife was still in her hand, and her hand 
was sticky and damp. 

iTo be continued.) 

by Google 

Original from 

Death > 

An Interview with I 



who has l>ccome a convinced 
Spiritualist, has accorded me a 
striking interview ran the subject 
or Life after Death. 

41 Proved Beyond Question." 

In his extraordinary book, 
" The New Revelation/ - published in the early 
part of last year, in which he expounds his 
belief that psychic phenomena have been 
proved beyond all q nest ion, and relates his own 
psychic experience since the beginning of his 
thirty years of investigation, Sir Arthur stated 
that he then knew of thirteen mothers of dead 
soldier boys who were in communication with 



their sons. He now tells me that the number 
of such mothers of whom lie has personal know- 
ledge has grown to thirty, and that, in many 
instances, he Idmseli has been privileged to 
place them in a position to establish this com- 
munication. And in most cases, he declares, 
the result has been Hi tidings of great joy." In 
only two was there absolute failure. 

Sir Arthur took a specimen letter, just received. 
from his pocket, which began as follows : "I 
am writing to tell you that I had the most 
wonderful result with Mrs. — to-day. I can- 
not tell you the joy it has been to me. and I 
know now the joy it has been to my friend," 

" That is the sort of tiling/ 1 said Sir Arthur. 
"In each case the husband, where lie is alivc t 
ia, so far as I know, agreed as to the evidence. 
In only one or two out of these cases was the 
parent acquainted with psychic matters before 
the war, 

" In every case where communication is 
gamed," Sir Arthur went on, "the mother is 
able to recognize almost immediately that it is 
really her dead son who is speaking through the 
medium or being described by the medium. At 
the very outset the latter will say, f I see a tall 
fellow, with a yellow moustache/ or some such 
personal description ; 'isn't his name jack ? * 
Then will follow reminiscence of the boys 
earthly lifiwilftaUr&tiite details that could not 




possibly be known to, or imagined £y, anyone 
— to say nothing of a perfect stranger — not 
intimately acquainted with the life and relations 
of this particular family. ' Don't you remember 
when I sowed turnip seed on the lawn ? * That 
is one example that occurs to me. 

" In some instances, moreover, as in the case 
of Raymond, the dead soldier son of Sir Oliver 
Lodge, who wrote so remarkable a book regard- 
ing their communications, matters connected 
with the son's existence here are touched upon 
which were not known to his parents, but which, 
upon investigation, prove to be perfectly 
accurate. This eliminates telepathy. And, last 
of all, come messages telling of these boys' 
life in the beyoncl— describing it, in many 
casos, with 'extraordinary detail, and invariably 
bearing testimony to the departed one's 
complete happiness, and expressing his fervent 
desire that his dear ones on earth should be 
aware of if. and that, far from mourning him 
as lost, they should go on living happily — exul- 
tantly — during the short period that needs to 
elapse before reunion takes place. ' It is only 
your grief which ever clouds my perfect happi- 
ness/ is what they say. 'It comes like a 
cold shadow upon us.' ., 

" Several of these cases have peculiarities of 
thMr own. In two of them* the figures of the 
deid lads have appeared beside the mothers in 
a photograph. One of these was Mr. Wilkinson, 
of 49, Queen Victoria Street, who gave me leave 
to quote him. In one case the first message to 
the mother came through a stranger, to whom 
the correct address of the mother was given by 
the spirit. Then communication later became 
direct. In another case the method of sending 
messages was to give reference to particular 
pages and lines of books in distant libraries, the 
whole conveying a message. This procedure 
was to rule out all fear of telepathy. Verily, 
there is no way by which a truth can be proved 
by which this truth of the possibility of com- 
munication with the dead has not been proved." 

" How is a mother, who has lost her son in 
the war, to go to work to get into communication 
with him ? " I asked. 

" How ? " repeated Sir Arthur. " There is the 
difficulty ! There are true men and there are 
frauds — blasphemous frauds, the most horrible 
of all frauds I You have to work warily. So 
far as professional mediums go, you will not find 
it difficult to get recommendations. The Spiri- 
tualist Alliance of 6, Queen's Square, W.C., 
would be the best adviser. Even with the 
best you may draw entirely blank. The 
conditions are very elusive. And yet some get 
the result at once. We cannot lay down laws, 
because the law works from the other side as 
well as this. But nearly every woman is an un- 
developed medium. Let her try her own powers 
of automatic writing, perhaps, when genuine, 
the most satisfactory means of communication. 
There, again, what is done must be done with 
every precaution against self-deception, and in 
a reverent and prayerful mood. But if you are 
in earnest you will win through somehow, for 
your son is probably trying on the other side." 


Warning to Parents. 

Here Sir Arthur sounded a warning. 

44 This matter of communication can be over- 
done," he declared. "If your boy were merely 
in a distant country, you would not expect him 
to continually drop his wttrk and write long 
letter* at all seasons. Having got in touch be 
moderate in your demands. Do not be satisfied 
with any evidence short of the best, but, having 
got that, you can, it seems to me, wait for that 
comparatively little time when you will join him 
in the Hereafter. As to the objection that it is 
illicit and dealing with devils," Sir Arthur added, 
with a smile, " I can only say that if Satan has 
set to work to convert agnostics and materialists 
to the fact of a life after death, and the necessity 
of preparing for it, he is becoming quite a 
reformed character." 

On the ground that there is nothing so con- 
vincing as personal experience, I here asked 
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to detail to me some of 
his own, which he personally regarded as most 
unquestionable. I also inquired what type of 
person was the medium to whom he sent the 
mothers who come to him wishful of getting 
into " correspondence," as he terms it, with 
their dead sons. 

41 She is a little woman with a misty eye," he 
said. " With me she is variable and inclined to 
be self-conscious. Sometimes she goes quite 
wrong, but at other times she has got me very 
extraordinary and undoubted messages. One 
instance I may give you as fairly representative. 

" ' 1 see a young officer in khaki,' she said. 
' His name I cannot make out, but he *ys you 
will recognize him easily when you remember 
the gold coin that you gave him under peace 

" Immediately she uttered those last words," 
said Sir Arthur, " I knew that the spirit who 
was present was that of my brother-in-law, a 
captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps, who 
was killed early in the war. Immediately he 
took his medical degree I went to him, largely 
by way of a joke, and consulted him about some 
minor ailment from which I was then suffering. 
On receiving his diagnosis, I presented him, by 
way of fee, with an old Georgian guinea which 
I had acquired some time before. He was quite 
delighted with it, and always treasured it there- 
after, wearing it on his chain. So immediately 
the * gold coin ' was mentioned by the medium 
I knew for a certainty that the message was 
a genuine one, and that my brother-in-law 
was the sender, since the medium could in no 
way know of the matter. 

" Now I will tell you of another experience 
that I had recently," Sir Arthur went on, " and 
one that would have convinced me of the 
accuracy of these spirit messages, even if I had 
not had hundreds of absolutely incontestable 
ones before. In this case I was present at a 
seance with an amateur medium whom I had 
previously had no opportunity of testing. I was 
not sitting in the 4 circle/ but was asked if I 
would care to put a question ? ' Yes,' I said, 
' I should like to have a test. Let her transmit 






a message that I will know is meant for me 

" After a few minutes this message was 
spelled out : * Food Komes (it was spelled with 
a K) before entomology.' It sounded perfectly 
ridiculous, and everybody present except myself 
was distressed that such an evident absurdity 
had come through. I, however, said imme- 
diately; ' I regard that as absolutely final. The 
test is perfect.' And this is why I recognized 
the message as meant for me. 

" On the day before that on which I attended 
this seance, I had told my two little boys, aged 
nine and seven (these are children of Sir Arthur's 
second marriage) that they must go to work 
and kill all the caterpillars and other predatory 
insects in our garden. They were not inclined 
to do it, for they arc very tender-hearted little 
fellows, but I explained to them lhat these 
insects were just 
as much a me- 
nace to our food 
supply as the /<«/> 

German subma- 
rines then were. 
They understood 
the necessity 
then, and started 
at once. So now 
you can see the 
significance o f 
the message 
that I received : 
' Food comes 
before ento- 
mology,' It de- 
monstrated to 
me, to put it at 
the lowest, that 
there were ab- 
normal forces at 

Now, what is 
this " automatic 
writing " which 
Sir Arthur 
Conan Doyle 
recemmends to 

the bereaved as an alternative to mediums as a 
means of getting into communication with those 
who have gone before ? As he indicates, it is a 
method of cemmunication which anyone may 
find himself able to practise. All, I understand, 
that one lias to do is to put pencil to paper and 
try if, after practice, what appears to be a 
veritable message from outside will write itself 
automatically and have internal evidence of 
truth. " You may get nothing. You may 
get mere scrawl. You may get actual words." 

Sir Arthur instances as one out of many extra- 
ordinary experiences of this kind a case that is 
recorded in Arthur Hill's recent book. " Man is 
a Spirit," of which he himself thinks most 
highly. It is contributed by a man who takes 
the name of Captain James. His testimony is, 
in part, as follows : — 

" A week after my father's funeral I was 
writing a business letter, when something 

Digitized by LiOOQ It 

seemed to intervene between my hand and the 
motor centres of my brain, and the hand wrote 
at an amazing rate a letter, signed with my 
father's signature, and purporting to come from 
him. I was upset, and my right side and arm 
became cold and numb. For a year after the>c 
letters came frequently and always at un- 
expected times. I never knew what they con- 
tained until I examined them with a magnifying 
glass ; they were microscopic. And they con- 
tained a vast amount of matter with which it 
was impossible for me to be acquainted. 

A Father's Secret 


" A most sacred secret known to no one but 
my father and mother, concerning a matter that 
occurred years before I was born, was told me 
in the script, with the comment, 'Tell your 
mother this, and she will know that it is I, your 


( Tk.) 



W^r^ ^ 





Th* Gate of Remembrance," {BUukwell. Oxford. U. neL) 

father, who am writing.' My mother had been 
unable to accept the possibility up to now. but 
when I told her this she collapsed and fainted. 
From that moment the letters became her 
greatest comfort, for they were lovers durinc 
the forty years of their married life, and hi< 
death almost broke her heart. I have compared 
the diction and vocabulary of these letters with 
those employed in my own writing, and I find 
no points of similarity between the two. 1 am 
as convinced that my father, in his original 
personality, still exists as if he were still in his 
study with the door shut. He is no more dead 
than he would be were he living in America." 

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle says that one of the 
members of his own household at Crowborough 
was a lady who developed the power of auto- 
matic writing, occasionally with remarkable 
results. " For example," he said, " when the 
Litsitania^mtf-pnnki arid the morning papers 




announced that, so far as was known, there was 
no loss of life, the medium at ouce wrote : ' It is 
terrible, terrible — and will have a great influence 
on the war.' Since it was the first strong 
impulse which turned America toward the war, 
this message was true in both respects. On the 
other hand, there is no denying that other 
messages have proved to be not true. Especially 
in the matter of time they are quite unreliable ; 
names also are very often stumbling-blocks. Of 
all forms of mediumship, this one seems to me 
the one which should be tested most rigidly, as 
it lends itself very easily not so much to deception 
as to self-deception, which is a more subtle and 
dangerous thing/' 

Of all instances of messages that have been 
received in this way, Sir Arthur, with seemingly 
good reason, considers by far the most extra- 
ordinary those which led to the discovery of 
the lost " Edgar Chapel " of Glastonbury Abbey. 
He strongly urged me, and all others interested 
in the subject of Psychic Phenomena, to read 
the book in which the discoverer of the lost 
chapel, Mr. Bligh Bond, British architect of 
distinction, and a Fellow of the Royal Institute 
of British Architects, tells of how he and a 
friend, for want of better guidance, tried the 
experiment of endeavourng to get in touch with 
the long dead custodians of the ancient Abbey, 
and how the astonishing series of messages that 
they received, most of them in Early English 
script and many of them in Latin, resulted in 
the discovery of one lost chapel, and appear 
likely to result in that of another, the Jt Loretto 
Chapel " of the mystic and storied fane. 

Throughout these experiments, which stretched 
over three years, definite questions rolating to 
the architecture and location of different parts 
of the ancient Abbey, which had disappeared as 
a result of desecration in bygone centuries, were 
put, and definite and nearly always enlightening 
answers were received. These purported to come 
from different members of the monkish sect 
which inhabited the Abbey five hundred years 
ago, some- of them even being signed by one of 
its abbots — Abbot Beere — who since has been 
demonstrated to have been a real character. 
Most of the messages, however, were com- 
municated by one " Father Johannes," a stone- 
mason, who, by the way, mentions that one 
matter of which he speaks " would be about 
1492," the year in which America was dis- 
covered ! This monk, as Sir Arthur Conan 
Doyle observed, is a " real character," many 
sides of his nature, some of them extremely 
quaint, being revealed by his communications. 

The name of the work, so strongly recom- 
mended by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in which 
these extraordinary experiments, and their 
almost incredible results, are recorded, is " The 
Gate ot Remembrance." 

" It is only fair to add, and indeed to empha- 
size," said Sir Arthur, " that Mr. Bligh Bond is 
not a spiritualist, and attempts to explain his 
own results by some theory that all knowledge 

floats off into the cosmos and can be regathered 
by those who have the power. Personally, I am 
always ready to examine any explanation, but 
this particular one fails very notably to explain 
Abbot Beere and Brother John, with their own 
anecdotes of the detail of their ancient lives." 

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle regards Spiritualism 
not as a religion in itself, but as a living proof 
of that life to come which is the foundation of 
all Religion. 

" The basis of Reconstruction," he said, 
" must be the reconstruction of Religion, because 
religion, as it is now taught in the churches, has 
failed. It has failed because it is not believed. 
If it had nqt failed, such a world cataclysm as 
we have just witnessed would have been im- 
possible in our day and generation. The terrible 
war that has just ended " (we were talking at a 
London hotel only a few minutes after the news 
that the armistice had been signed came through 
on the tape) " was an object-lesson intended to 
shock us, to steady us. God help us if we fail 
to profit by the lesson, for we shall never have 
such a chance again. It is now or never." 

What is the nature of the life Beyond as 
revealed by the supposedly spirit communications 
of the authenticity of which, in the mass, Sir 
Arthur believes so firmly? 

" The messages," he said, " revolutionize, as 
it seems to me, all our conceptions of death. 
They teach that what St. Paul calls our spiritual 
body is the exact counterpart of our present one 
at its best, that the mind carries on as it was 
before, and that the Bishop of London expressed 
it very happily when he said that the man was 
the same five minutes after death as five minutes 
before, except that the cloud of illness had 

" He is in a world which is very analogous to 
our own, raised, as it were, to a higher octave ; 
and expressed in terms of ether rather than in 
denser matter. It is a world of brightness, oi 
intense intellectual activity, of pleasant work, 
of homely comfort, of sympathetic and loving 
companionship, all enhanced by the conscious- 
ness of God's tender care. 

" This is the temporary ante-room to some- 
thing even grander beyond. Such is the normal 
destiny of the average human being. For the 
wicked there are chastening spheres, which, 
however, should be regarded rather as hospitals 
for crippled souls than as places of punishment, 
though their cure comes through sorrow." 

Such is " The New Revelation " as Sir Arthur 
Conan Doyle sees it. He tells me that he is 
devoting much of his time to urging it upon the 
public here ; that, in fact, his activities in this 
direction have " passed beyond his control." 
" I may lead a movement," he says, " but there 
is something ahead which is leading me." For 
the lectures he delivers on this subject he accepts 
no fees. He hopes to co-operate in a great and 
impressive Spiritualistic gathering at the Albert 
Hall, or some other large place of public assembly 
in London. 

by Google 

Original from 

A Back-Garden 

COLLIP was very 
unhappy. He had 
quarrelled with hLs 

But that was not 
the worst. He had 
quarrelled with hi-* 



Ufusfra/ea b y nrnDafeman 

sweetheart's mother, a lady of majestic 
proportions, with a corresponding sense of her 
own importance. 

They had differed as to what constitutes a 
perfect gentleman. And the argument had ended 
iu personalities. 

Matilda, Algernon's beloved, had accompanied 
him to the garden-gate, 
according to immemorial 
custom ; but only to tell 
him that, of course, all 
was henceforth over be* 
tweed them. 

He had acquiesced 
bitterly, and had spent 
the remainder of the 
evening — and far more 
money than he could 
afford — in playing bil- 
liards with an unworthy 
acq u ai ntance named 
Fosfcins at the Dreg- 

Himself a life ab- 
stainer, as he proudly 
boas ted t Algernon bad 
nevertheless arrived 
home in the small hours, 
after that debauch, 
giddy from overmuch 
smoking of strong cigars, 
and had wound up a 
disastrous day by in- 
curring the unmerited 
suspicions of his mother, 
who had sat up for 

On the following morn- 
ing he did not feel up to 
his work at the office, 
and got into trouble 

with his manager over some eccentric arithmetic, 
Indeed, as Algernon observed in his per fervid 
way, there did not seem to be any sense in goinu 
on living in such an unsatisfactory world- 

Usually he dined late : it was cheaper- Bet 
on arriving home from the oflice this evening 

he had spurned the 
smoking repast hi* 
mother had spread for 

" I'm going straight 
upstairs to my room, 
ma/ p he said. ** And, 
mind, if anybody Calls 
—anybody, I don't care 
who — I'm out." 

4€ Out of temper ? M 
suggested his sister Amy 
" Besides, nobody ever 
does call on you." 

41 Foskins calls some- 
times/* he reminded 
her \ it was Fbskins 
whom he had in mind. 

" Well. I don J t call 
him any bod} V said 

"I do not wish for 
any discussion/' said 
Algernon, M I only wi>h 
that, in the event of 
there being any visitors, 
you will be kind enough 
to tell them the usuiU 
polite fiction." 

And. having thus de- 
li ve red himself* lie uent 
upstairs to his bedroom 
at the back of the 
to sit in a canc- 


*"""■" ** EXDE " "WtftlfftawcillSffl 



bottomed chair at the window, and cool his 
burning brow against the glass. 

An hour passed. 

He grew a little weary of his solitude. His 
mood of romantic unhappiness, which was in a 
sense enjoyable, gave way to one of prosaic 
boredom. He wished he had thought to bring a 
book or a magazine upstairs with him. 

He was debating whether he might, without 
loss of dignity, go down and get something to 
read, when there came a prolonged loud knocking 
at the front door. 

He heard his sister Amy issue from the parlour 
and cross the tiny hall. He heard a sharp click 
as the latch was drawn. And then a cold 
draught of air swept up the stairs, chilling his 

" I wonder who it can be ? " he said to him- 
self,, and rose and crossed his bedroom on tiptoe 
and listened. 

" Ah, my dear Miss Collip ! " 

At the sound of that deep, resonant voice 
Algernon started violently. For it was the 
voice of Mrs. Forder, his sweetheart's mother. 
And then he heard the sweet dulcet tones of 
Matilda herself as she greeted his sister, after 
the fashion of the old-fashioned maidens of 
pre-war days, with the words : " Well, Amy, 
my duck of ducks, how goes it ? " 

Followed sounds of kissing, the heavy tread 
of Mrs. Collip as she also bustled out to welcome 
the visitors. After that, the usual rally of shrill 
feminine voices, sinking abruptly to an indistinct 
murmur as the four ladies entered the parlour 
and the door closed on them. 

Algernon stole back to his cane-bottomed 
chair and sat down again with a parched mouth 
and pricking eye-balls. He was a-quiver with 

In the ordinary way there would, of course, 
have been nothing at all surprising in this visit 
from his sweetheart and her mother. The 
Forders and the Coilips had been friends for 
many years. Mrs. Forder and his mother were 
old cronies, whilst Matilda and his sister Amy 
had been inseparable until their respective love 
affairs had deprived them ever more and more 
of each other's society. 

But at this particular juncture, and in the 
light of what had passed on the previous evening, 
Algernon could not but feel that some deeper 
significance than usual attached to this evening 

Perhaps Mrs. Forder, urged thereto by her 
daughter, had come to beg his pardon for her 
overnight rudeness. He could not quite visualize 
that haughty matron in an apologetic attitude. 
At the same time, she was very fond of Matilda, 
and Matilda had more influence with her than 
anyone else. 

Moreover, Matilda possessed a useful knack 
of performing miracle?. Had she not, indeed, 
won even him, Algernon Collip, from a confirmed 
misogyny ? 

Then his mind engaged on another speculation. 
What if Matilda herself had come to make up 
their quarrel ? He knew the ways of women, 
how they could convey by a word, a glance, a 

nuance of expression, whole three-volume novels 
of meaning. Yes, that was it. Matilda had 
come to # tell him, subtly, that she repented her 
harsh, hasty words, and was ready .to be to 
him once again what they had always been 
to one another. 

He rose to his feet in a glow of joyous relief. 
He was on the point of rushing downstairs — or, 
rather, of going down soberly to join the party — 
when he had a devastating thought. 

He recalled the injunction he had laid upon 
his mother and sister : " If anybody calls — any- 
body ! V I don't care who — I'm out ! " 

But surely they would not be so foolish, so 
literal -minded, as to include his sweetheart in 
this prohibition ? Surely, they would have nous 
enough to excuse his absence on some such 
plausible grounds as that he had retired to his 
private room to study ? (He dabbled in 
philately.) Presently, no doubt, they would 
summon him. Amy would call out to him from 
the foot of the stairs : " Algy, dear, do tear 
yourself away from those dry old albums for 
just one minute and come down. Matilda's 
here." After all, that would sound very well, 
and he would be able to make rather an impres- 
sive entry as the dishevelled white -faced student, 
somewhat dazed and brain- weary. 

As it was by this time getting dark, he lit a 
candle and surveyed his reflection in the mirror 
to see if he looked the part. Unfortunately, he 
was cursed with very round red cheeks that no 
amount of tribulation and care could ever render 
pale or haggard. However, he could rumple 
his hair and disarrange his cravat a little. And 
this he did. He added one or two other touches, 
and then sat down again. 

Five, ten, twenty minutes passed, and still 
the summons did not come. The ladies seemed 
to be making merry. Sounds of muffled laughter 
reached him. He tried to derive consolation 
from the fact that whatever his future rela- 
tions with Matilda might be, her mother had 
evidently not called to animadvert upon his 

At the same time, it was exasperatingly 
obvious that his own women-folk had taken him 
at his word and told the visitors that he was not 
at home. He railed silently at their stupidity. 
And when he heard his Matilda begin to play 
the piano he was so shocked at the thought of 
her heartlessness that he was affected almost to 

" Wait a bit, though," he said to himself, as 
he conquered that weakness. " Perhaps she's 
only killing time in the hope that I'll soon be 
back. Poor girl ! Brave heart ! But you shall 
not be disappointed if Algernon Collip's got a 
head with brains in it." 

He pondered, in the approved attitude, one 
forefinger touching his forehead lightly. 

" I can't go down, unless they call or fetch 
me. It wouldn't be effective. I should look a 
fool. And ma and Amy would look fools, too, 
if they've said I'm out. I wonder if I could 
steal out and then come back again as if I'd 
just returned from a stroll ? No, the street door 
shuts too hard. They would hear me go. And 




if they looked out of the parlour window they 
would see me go* So that 'a no good/* 

He relapsed into despair. Another quarter of 
an hour passed- The music and the *alk and 
the laughter went on, and he felt more and more 
horribly out of it all. Every moment his gloom 
increased as tie raged and fumed in his impotence 
against his self -imprisonment. And then, as if a 
bright light had been flashed upon Mm, he had 
his great inspiration. 

Yeara ago, when he was a boy, he had often 
escaped from that bedroom by the window* It 
whs an easy climb over the scuilery-roof. And 
then, to reach the 
street h you had only 
to walk along the top 
of the wall. 

He sprang to his 
feet, opened the win- 
dow cautiously, and 
looked nut. 

it was dark and 
cold and misty, with 
a vague but palpable 
dampness floating in 
the air. He cared not 
a fig for the weather ; 
but he realized tliat 
he could hardly hope 
to tell a credible story 
alter appearing at the 
street door without 
hat or overcoat on 
such a night. 

At any risk he must 
procure some outdoor 

The music of the 
piano still continued 
lie tlianked his lucky 
stars that Matilda 
played in such bra- 
vura style* If she 
would only go oil 
* whilst he crept down- 
stairs to the liall -stand 
and back again. * • - 

It was a breathless, 
tretnulnus Algernon, 
an Algernon with 
smarting eyes and a 
thumping heart, that 
regained the safety of 
liis bedroom, carrying 
hat and coat, two 
minutes later. 

" So far, so good ! " 
he told himself, glee- 
fully. tf Now, to get 
out! ' 

And he chuckled as 
he anticipated the 
astonishment of his 
sister when she should 
admit him into the 
house presently. 

But between tne 
small frame and 


supple limbs of boyhood and the bulk and the 
stiffness and the clumsiness that come with 
man's estate, there is a vast difference that is 
not to be easily overcome either by superior 
strength or superior cunning. 

Algernon's troubles and difficulties began with 
his first attempt to slide out of the window 
backwards. He was inclined (as the French 
say euphemistically) to embonpoint. He stuck 
fast midway, with his greatcoat in a bundle 
about his meridian, and had to start again. 

This time he removed his greatcoat, rolled it 
up, and placed it in a corner of the window-ledge. 

But he forgot to re- 
move his hat r which 
fell back into the 
room at r a critical 
moment, and so ho 
had to come back fur 
that. He placed it on 
top of the greatcoat, 
carefully. And all the 
white he was very un- 
comfortably conscious 
of making a consider- 
able noise * Luckily, 
however, the indefa- 
tigable Matilda was 
still pounding out 
some vigorous air. 

At the third essay 
Algernon did succeed 
in getting out upon 
the sill— only to per- 
ceive that he had for- 
gotten to extinguish 
his candle- It stood 
in dangerous prox- 
imity to the muslin 
curtains, and he was 
constit utio nail y nei - 
vous about fire* More- 
over, the candlestick 
was a tawdry thing. 
If the flame were al- 
lowed to glitter down 
it would probably 
melt the soft thin 
metal, perhaps burn a 
hole in the dressing- 
table, and so start <i 

He could not leave it 
like that + So, a third 
time he re -entered the 
mum, to put out the 

And then it was so 
dark, within and with- 
out, that he hardly 
dared to risk a fourth 
attempt, Desperation 
lent him courage, how- 
ever, and at last he 
succeeded in achieving 
his object, though not 
without first rasping 
fast mid w A®f | g j r his scalp so deeply and 



2i r 

extensively that 
he felt he must 
for ever after be 
afflicted with a 
permanent bald 

With twittei> 
lug nerves he 
crouched on the 
sill, clutching at 
the lower win- 
dow-sash with 
both hands whilst 
he reached out 
into the void 
with a tentative 


And the first 

thing his feet 

struck against 

were his hat and 


The overcoat 

fell upon the 

sculler y-r oof 

with a thud, and 

stayed there.. 

The hat bounced 

briskly over the 

slates and rolled 

away into the 

outer darkness. 

He reflected that 

he must have 

been a fool not 

to have chosen a 

r\p instead. But 

he was fast grow- 
ing reconciled to 

ihe sad conclu- 

s* »n ihat he was 

F >, , lions kinds of 

fool — and had 

been all his life, 

without suspect* 

ing it. 
He could never toll how he accomplished that 

He found it simple and swift enough, though 

m>t exactly painless* And when he picked 

himself up, and disengaged himself from an up- 

moted rose-bush, it was only to realize that he 

had left his overcoat on the roof of the scullery, 

along with several square inches of skin from 

the palms of his hands* But, as a stt-off against 

these losses, he had brought away a good deal 

of dirt and soot and so on in his mouth and eyes 

— he did not rightly know how much at the 

moment — together with the rusty skeleton of a 

bath and a varied assortment of flower- pots. 
The next chapter in this tale of his adventures 

opened with what might perhaps be called The 

Ordeal of the Wall- 
It was a high, smooth wall, singularly free- 

from any protuberance* Recalling how gaily 

and lightly he had yea let! it in the days of his 

childhood, he marvelled that it should present 

such seemineflv insuperable difficulties now. He 

mL Vol lviL-15. " 


sighed for those 
long-lost powers 
which the aver- 
age boy shares 
with flies and 
cats and mon- 
keys. Indeed, 
had he not dis- 
covered a provi- 
dential dust-bin 
(by his sense of 
smell) he never 
could have got 
out of the garden 
at all, 

As it was he 
got out of it so 
effectually that 
he only escaped 
falling into the 
adjoining prem- 
ises by the skin 
of his knees and 

And then be- 
gan Ids first stem 
lesson in the art 
of the late M. 
Blondin ; a lesson 
embittered by 
the recollection 
that, after all* he 
had forgotten his 
hat, and must 
henceforth aflect 
to sympathize 
with the No Hat 

The top of the 
wall was thicker 
and more stable 
but it was not 
nearly so level or 
so straight, and 
its thickness and 
stability were not uniform. There were places 
in it where its width dwindled to the size of a 
single brick, and other places where the bricks 
themselves gave way under him* He covered 
the first twenty or thirty yards, partly in a 
stooping posture, partly on his hands and feet, 
and partly in a straddling attitude, as if he were 
on horseback. 

And then he came to the dread confines of 
Captain Harker's little place. 
i Here he encountered a fierce entanglement of 
dilapidated wooden trellis-work and broken 
wire-netting. Both of these obstructions, in 
addition to being insurmountable, seemed almost 
humanly spiteful. They clawed and prodded, 
scratched and poked at Algernon, until he felt 
as full of holes as a sieve, and every hole a 
separate torture-chamber. 

In the nature of tilings, his unequal contest 
with these diabolical defences could not last 
long* It ended for our forlorn adventurer with 
a sudden frantic chitc^ *t the clouds, a yell* 





some strange acrobatics, a crash, and a firework 

Algernon had fallen through the roof of the 
Captain 's hen-cc op, smashing through the timbers 
and patchwork of felt, and coming to muddy 
earth at last with all the spoils of victory cluster- 
ing thick upon him ; splinters sticking in his hair 
and other more vulnerable parts of him, a sort 
of tarpaulin scarf round his neck, and speckled 
from head to foot with poultry-food that was 
glued on to him with egg-juice, 

For quite an appreciable while he sat idly 
there, watching the rockets and squibs and 
blue-devils that seemed to light up the prospect, 
liens flapped and squawked about his head, 
whilst somewhere in the middle distance an 
aged cock, in a voice hoarse and broken with 
emotion, crowed defiance, discordantly. 

Algernon, as he rubbed his head, wondered 
when he would wake up, and what he could 
have eaten for supper to give him such a night- 

And then, quite suddenly, he recovered full 
possession of bis faculties. He knew where he 
was, what he had done, and what he had failed 

But he had caused so great a com motion, he 
had raised such an eldritch din, as to rouse old 
Captain Harker from his after-dinner doze. 
And now r that pot-valiant, bloodthirsty seaman * 
sw T orn enemy ol egg and chicken thieves, came 
bursting ont of his back door, armed with a 
rusty cutlass and accompanied by his bull- 

It was no time for sober reflection, truces, or 
palavers. Whatever presence of mind Algernon 
may or may not have possessed, he discarded 
in that instant in favour of absence of body* 

There is, so far as I am aware, no official 
record for an eighty yards* steeplechase, over 
garden -walls instead of hurdles, but if there had 
been such a record I am perfectly certain that 
Algernon would have broken it. 

For a man unused to athletics and a little 
inclined to corpulency, his time was superb, 
magnificent, unparalleled in the annals of sport. 
Nobody knows how he did it, least of all Algernon 
himself ; but somehow- — anyhow- — helter-skelter 
—he raced across garden after garden — and there 
seemed an endless succession of them* — until he 
came to the final w'all, and in some headlong, 


to do. And in that same instant he abandoned 
for ever all idea of carrying out his original 
project* His only desire now was to escape the 
impending consequences of his rashness. 

With a groan of poignant anguish he scrambled 
to his feet, and so lifted off the wreckage of the 
roof upon Ms shoulders. Thus encumbered* he 
fought his way out furiously from the dismantled 
hen-coop, disengaging himself as he went from 
the fragments of the ruin he had wrought. 


miraculous fashion, vaulted over that obstacle 
also into the Upper Balmaine Road. 

He alighted on a shining wet pavement, lost 
his foothold on the greasy mire, and danced a 
wild fandango to recover his equilibrium. He 
knew now that the chase was hotly afoot, that 
a host of eager pursuers were in full cry after 
him. He could hear the clatter of countless 
boots resounding on the slippery stones, a bulla* 
baloo of yells and ho wis from backyard -land, 




and the barking of many dogs* From all 
sides these sou ads closed in on him as he stood 
there, shaken and dazed and helpless, not 
knowing whither to turn and flee. 

Then, out of the thick, clammy mist loomed 
a» gigantic helmeted figure, Feebly, instinctively, 
Algernon tried to dodge, to double — in vain. 
He was seized by the collar, dragged violently 
backward, and half -throttled. He felt that in a 

u The magistrate will give you all the time you 
want— and more. Are you coming quiet lv, or 
how ? " 

" Not down that street I " screamed Algernon, 
as his captor swept him round the corner* " 1 
live there I " 

Mrs. Collip and Mrs. Forder, Amy and Matilda, 
hearing an uprnar in the street, and being women 



moment his head must surely burst. Then the 
hard, bony knuckles relaxed their pressure, and 
he gazed up into the policeman's face, 

11 It's all a huge mistake, Mr. Constable/' he 
sobbed, hysterically. "I'm quite a respectable 
gentleman, really, as 111 prove to you if you'll 
permit me; 1 

" No need to prove it. You look it/' said the 
policeman, grimly, 

He was after my fowls/' wheezed Captain 
Marker, arriving most inopportunely at this 

* 4 You charge him ? " 

44 Most certainly I do." 

" You come along of us to the station, then. 
Now, you boys." 

M One momerit I " pleaded Algernon* " Just 
one moment to explain." 

To which the policeman replied, unfeelingly : 

and consequently curious, went to the garden* 
gate to discover the reason ol the disturbance. 

They saw a tatterdemalion figure of a looped 
and fantastic ragged ness, bruised and bleeding 
and begrimed, being forcibly hustled along 
between two burly policemen* But only Matilda, 
with the eyes of Love, recognized in that raving, 
babbling creature her own poor demented 
Algernon. The air was rent by a piercing 

A description of the scene that ensued might, 
however, prove both tedious and painful. The 
reader must, therefore, supply the details out 
of his own imagination — as he must also supply 
the arguments whereby Matilda convinced her 
mother that Algernon must have loved her 
dearly — not Mrs. Forder, of course, but Matilda 
— to have gene through such peril and suffering 
for her — again I mean Matilda's — sake- 

E. Phillips Oppenheim at his best ! 

"The Great Impersonation ** — an enthralling romance of present-day life- 
has just commenced in the "Grand Magazine*" Buy a copy to-day. 

z-=::zz_ = "rrzz:z 




By Floyd P. Gibbons. 


ihn [araoui Wnr cnrrripondeilt of the CKlCJIffn ' Tri Lumr/ 
who tell* irv ihtM pasei how it fecU lo be lorprdoed, 
Liit June Gibbon pushed to far lo ihc front for nfwi 
th*i « Grtman n\m hin^-Hun injurrd hi* arm apd ihoulfW 
and put out one of hi* cyn. Gibbons returned to ih^ 
United Slitei Nit September to r«ovei hit ftfeftsth. Tbi* 
photograph of Kin w» mide eipecially for I in* artmlr. 
I'hotu. Broiirn. liro*. 

EACE will have its great moments 
of course. Already we have 
found that the thought of the 
end of the War is as stirring 
as the bugle notes of any battle ; 
that there ia a thunder of 
Peace as well as of War* 
But though we should live 
a hundred years, Peace can never make us 
forget some of the things which have happened 
tjecause of War. This is a true account of one 
of those breathless thrills ; and a most historic 
one at that. 

On February 17th, 1917, I sailed from New 
York on the Laconia, bound for Liverpool. 
The ship was an eighteen -thousand -ton Cunarder, 
carrying seventy -three passengers and a crew 
numbering two hundred and sixteen. Sunday, 
February 25th, we entered the " war zone " 
without having seen a sign of a U-bost. 

That afternoon I was seated in the lounge 
with two friends — one an American named 
Kirby, the other a Canadian aviator named 
Dugan, who had been wounded twice 


and had been sent home to Canada to get well* 
Now he was on his way back to the battle front, 
14 to stop another bullet/' as he raid, 

As we talked, 1 passed round my cigarette 
case j and Dugan held a match while the three 
of us lighted our cigarettes lrom it. As Dugan 
blew out the match and placed the burnt end 
in an ash-tray he laughed and said ' — 

i€ They say it's bad luck to light three 
cigarettes with the same match, but I think 
it's good luck for me. I used to do it with 
my flying partners in France, and four of them 
have been killed ; but I am still alive." 

" That makes it all right for you," said 
Kirby, " but it looks bad for" Gibbons and 
myself. Nothing will happen, though. 1 don't 
believe in superstitions*" 

That night after dinner Kirby and I took 
a brisk walk around the darkened promenade 
deck of the Laconia. The night was black 
and a stiff wind was blowing. Wet with spray, 
Kirby and I went to the smoking-room en 
the boat-deck ne;ir the stern of the ship, and 
joined a circle seated in front of a cdal fire in 
an open hearth, 

" What do you think our chances are of being 
torpedoed ? " was the question I put before 
the circle in front of the fireplace, 

The deliberative Mr, Henry Chetham, a 
London solicitoGrftG^rifcHef (Off) to answer, 




" Well." he said, " I should say about four 
thousand to one." * 

Lucien J. Jerome, of the British Diplomatic 
Service, returning from South America, advanced 
his opinion. Jerome was the best monocle 
juggler I had ever met. In his right eye he 
carried a monocle without a rim and without 
a ribbon or thread to save it, should it ever 
have fallen from his eye. Repeatedly during 
the trip across I had seen Mr. Jerome standing 
on the hurricane deck of the Laconia, facing 
the wind but holding his monocle in his eye 
with a muscular grip that must have been vice- 
like. I had even followed him about in a desire 
to be present when the monocle blew out, but 
the British diplomat never once lost his grip 
on it. I had come to the opinion tliat the 
piece of glass was permanently fixed to his 
eye and that he slept with it. After the fashion 
of the British Diplomatic Service, he expressed 
his opinion most affirmatively. 

" Nonsense," he said, with reference to Mr. 
Chetham's estimate. " Utter nonsense. Con- 
sidering the zone that we are in and the class 
of the ship, I should put our chances down 
at two hundred and fifty to one that we don't 
meet a sub." 

And at that moment the torpedo hit us ! 

Have you ever stood on the deck of a ferry- 
boat as it arrived in the slip ? And have you 
ever experience/rt the slight sideward shove 
when the ferry rubs against the piling and 
comes to a stop ? That was the unmistakable 
lurch we felt. But no one expects to run into 
pilings in mid-ocean, so everyone knew what 
it was. At the same time there came a muffled 
noise, not extremely loud, nor yet very sharp ! 
— just a noise like the slamming of some large 
oaken door a good distance away. Realizing 
that we had been torpedoed, my imagination 
was rather disappointed at the slightness of 
the shock and the meekness of the report. 
One or two chairs tipped over, a few glasses 
crashed from table to floor, and in an instant 
every man in the room was on his feet. 

" We're hit 1 " shouted Chctham. 

" What a wretched torpedo 1 " said Kirby. 
" It must have been a fizzer." 

I looked at my watch. It was ten-thirty. 

Five sharp blasts sounded on the Laconia' s 
whistle. Since that night I have often mar- 
velled at the quick co-ordination of mind and 
hand that belonged to the man on the bridge 
who pulled that whistle-rope. Those five blasts 
constituted the signal to abandon the ship. 
Everyone recognized them. We walked hur- 
riedly down the corridor leading from the 
smoke-room in the stern to the lounge, which 
was amidships. We moved fast, but there 
was no crowding and no panic. 

Passing the open door of the gymnasium 
I became aware of the list of the vessel. The 
floor slanted down to the starboard side and a 
medicine-ball and dozens of dumb-bells and 
Indian clubs were rolling in that direction. 

We entered the lounge, a large drawing-room 
furnished with green upholstered chairs, divans. 

and small tables on which the after-dinner 
coffee cups and liqueur glasses still rested. 
In the centre of the slanting floor of the salon 
was a cabinet phonograph, and from its 
bowels there poured the last strains of " Poor 
Butterfly/' The women and several men who 
had been in the lounge were leaving hurriedly 
by the forward door as we entered. We followed 
them through. The twin winding stairs leading 
below decks by the forward hatch were dark, 
and I brought into play a pocket flashlight 
shaped like a fountain pen, which I had pur- 
chased before sailing, in view of just such an 
emergency, and which I had always carried 
fastened with a clip in an upper vest pocket. 

My stateroom was B 19 on the promenade 
deck, right below the one on which were the 
smoke-room, the lounge, and the lifeboats. 
The corridor was dimly lighted and the floor 
had a more perceptible slant as I darted into 
my stateroom, which was on the starboard 
and sinking side of the ship. I hurriedly put 
on a light non-sinkable garment constructed 
like a vest, with which I had provided myself, 
"and then donned an overcoat. 

Responding to the list of the ship the ward- 
robe door swung open and crashed against the 
wall. My typewriter slid off the surface of 
the dressing-table and a shower of toilet articles 
pitched from their places on the washstand. 
I grabbed the ship's life-preserver in my left 
hand and, with the flashlight in my right hand, 
started for the upper deck. 

In the darkness of the boat-deck companion- 
way my flashlight revealed the chief steward 
opening the door of a switch-closet in the panel - 
wall. He pushed on a number of switches, 
and instantly the decks of the Laconia became 
bright with light. From sudden darkness the 
exterior of the ship burst into a blaze of illu- 
mination, and it was the illumination that saved 
many lives. 

The Laconia* $ engines and dynamos had not 
been damaged. The torpedo had hit us well 
astern on the starboard side, and the bulkheads 
seemed to be holding back from the engine-room 
the flood of water that rushed in through the 
gaping hole in the ship's side. 

Proceeding to my station opposite boat No. 10, 
I looked over the side and down upon the wafer 
sixty feet below. The sudden flashing on of the 
lights had made the dark,, seething waters seem 
blacker and angrier. They rose and fell in 
troubled swells. Steam began to hiss from some 
of the pipes leading up from the engine well. It 
seemed like a dying groan from the very vitals 
of the stricken ship. Clouds of black smoke 
rolled up from the giant grey funnels that 
towered above us. 

Suddenly there was a roaring swish as a rocket 
soared upward from the captain's bridge, leaving 
a comet's tail of fire. I watched it as it described 
a graceful arc, and then with an audible -pop it 
burst in a flare of brilliant colour. Its ascent 
had torn a lurid rent in the black sky and cast 
a red glare over the roaring sea. Already boat 
No. 10 was loading up and men and boys were 
busy witli the rope3. I started to help near a 




davit that seemed to be giving trouble, but was 
sternly ordered to keep out of the way and to 
get into the boat. 

Other passengers and members of the crew 
and officers of the ship were rushing along the 
deck, strapping their life preservers to them as 
they ran. There was some shouting of orders, 
but little or no confusion. 

We were on the port side, which was the 
highest* To reach the boats we had to climb 
up the slanting deck. 

On the starboard side it was different. The 
ship careened in that direction, and the lifeboats 
on that side, suspended from the davits, swung 
clear of the ship. 

The list of the ship increased. From the port 
boat deck we looked down the slanting side of 
the ship and noticed that her normal water-line 
on that side was a number of feet above the 
waves. The slant was so pronounced that the 
Ufeboats, instead of swinging clear of the davits, 
rested against the side of the ship. From my 
position in the lifeboat I could see that we were 
going to have difficulty in the descent to the 

" Lower away I " someone ordered, and we 
started downward with a jerk toward the seem- 
ingly hungry rising and falling swells. Then we 
stopped with another jerk and remained sus- 
pended in mid-air, while the men at the bow and 
the stern swore and tussled with the ropes. 

The stern of the boat was down, the bow up, 
leaving us at an angle of about forty-five degrees. 
We clung to the seats to save ourselves from 
falling out. 

11 Who's got a khife ? A knife ! A knife I " 
shouted a fireman in the bow. He was bare to 
the waist, and perspiration stood out in drops 
on his face and chest and made streaks through 
the coal dust with which his skin was grimed. 

" Great Gawd ! Give him a knife," bawled a 
half-dressed, gibbering negro stoker. 

A hatchet was thrust into my hands and I 
forwarded it to the bow. There was a flash of 
sparks as it was brought down with a clang on 
the holding pulley, and one strand of the rope 

Down plunged the bow of the boat, too quickly 
for the men in the stern, and we came to a stop, 
this time with the stern in the air and the bow 
down. One man in the stern let the rope race 
through his blistered fingers. With hands burnt 
to the quick he stopped the boat just in time to 
bring the stern level with the bow. 

Then bow and stern tried to lower away 
together. But the slant of the ship's side had 
increased, so that our boat, instead of sliding 
down it like a toboggan, was held up on one 
side when the taffrail caught on one of the 
exhaust pipes projecting slightly from the ship's 

Thus the port side of the lifeboat stuck fast 
and high while the starboard side dropped down, 
and once more wo found ourselves clinging to 
the boat at a new angle and looking straight 
down into the water. 

A hand slipped into mine and a voice sounded 
huskily close to my ear. It was the little old 

Jewish travelling man whose slightly Teutonic 
dialect had made him aCs popular as the smallpox 
with the British passengers. 

** My poy, I can't see nutting," he said. " My 
glasses slipped and I am falling. Hold me, 

I managed to reach out and join hands with 
a man on the other side of him, and together we 
held the old man in. He hung heavily over our 
arms, grotesquely grasping all he had saved 
from his stateroom — a gold-headed cane and an 
extra hat. 

Many feet and hands pushed the .boat from 
the side of the ship, and we renewed our sagging, 
scraping, sliding, jerking descent. It concluded 
as the bottom of the lifeboat smacked squarely 
on the pillowy top of a rising swell. It felt more 
solid than mid-air, at least. 

But we were far from being off. The pulleys 
stuck twice in their fastenings, and the one axe 
passed forward and back, and with it my flash- 
light, as the entangling mesh of ropes was cut 

Some shout from that confusion of sound 
caused me to look up. Tin funnels, enamelled 
white, and containing clusters of electric bulbs, 
hung over the side from one of the upper decks. 
As I looked up into the cone of one of these 
lights, a bulky object descended from the dark- 

It was a man, His arms were bent up at the 
elbows ; his legs at the knees. He was jumping 
with the intention, I feared, of landing in our 
boat, and prepared to avoid the impact. But 
he had judged his distance well. He plunged 
into the sea three feet from the edge of the boat 
and disappeared under the water, leaving a 
white patch of bubbles and foam s on the black 
surface. He bobbed to the surface almost 

"It's Dugan ! " shouted a man next to me. 

I flashed a light on the ruddy, smiling face 
and water-plastered hair of the little Canadian 
aviator. As we pulled him over the side he 
spluttered out a mouthful of water ; and the 
first words he said were : — 

" I wonder if there's anything in that lighting 
of three cigarettes off the same match ? I was 
in the boat trying to loosen the bow rope and 
I got tangled up in it. When the boat came 
down I was jerked up back on to the deck of the 
ship. Then I jumped for it. Holy Moses, but 
this water is cold I " 

As we pulled away from the side of the ship 
its receding terraces of glowing port-holes and 
light towered above us. She was slowly turning 

There was a tangle of oars, spars, and rigging 
on the seats in our boat, and considerable con- 
fusion resulted before we could manage to place 
in operation some of the big oars on either side. 
The gibbering negro was pulling a sweep directly 
behind me, and I turned to quiet him, for his 
frantic reaches with the oar were jabbing me in 
the back. 

" Get away from her ! My Gawd ! Get away 
from her ! " he kept repeating. " When the 
water hits her hot boilers ahe'll blow up the whole 





ocean, and there's just tons and tons of shrapnel 
in her hold," 

His excitement spread to other members 
of the crew in our boat. The ship's baker, 
designated by his pantry headgear of white 
linen, became a competing alarmist ; and a 
white fireman, whose blasphemy was nothing 
short of profound* added to the confusion 
by cursing everyone, It was the tension of 
the minute — the giving way of overwrought 

I made my way to the stem where* huddled 
up in a great overcoat and almost muffled in 
a ship 5 life-preserver, I came upon an old white- 
haired man, I remembered him. He was a 
British sea captain of the old sailing days. 
Earlier in the year he had sailed out of Nova 
Scotia with a cargo of cod-fish* His schooner, 
the Secret, had broken in two in mid -ocean, 
but he and his crew had been picked up by a 

tramp and taken back to New York. From 
there he had sailed on another ship bound for 
Europe ; but tMs ship had never reached the 
other side. In mid-Atlantic her captain had 
lost courage over the U-boat threats and had 
turned the ship about and returned to America* 
Thus the Laconifr represented the third unsuc- 
cessful attempt of this white-haired mariner 
to get back to his home in England. His name 
was Captain Dear. 

" Our boat's rudder is gone, but wc can steer 
with an oar," he said, in a quavering voice, 
the thin, high-pitched treble of age. " I will 
take charge, if you want me to ; but my voice 
is gone, I can tell you what to do, but you 
will have to shout the orders. They won't 
listen to me/ 1 

There was only one way to get the attention 
of the crew and that was by an overpowering 
blast oi profanity* I called to my assistance 




every ear-splitting, soul-sizzling oath that I 
sould think of. I recited the lurid litany of 
the army mule-skinner and embellished it with 
excerpts from the remarks of a Chicago taxi- 
:haufteur while he changes tyres on the road 
with the temperature ten below zero, It 
proved to be an effective combination,, this 
brimstoned oration of mine, for it was rewarded 
by silence. 

" Is there a ship's officer in this boat ? " I 
shouted. There was no answer ' 

44 Is there a sailor or seaman od board ? " 
Again there was silence from our group of 
passengers, firemen, stokers, and deck-swabs. 

They appeared to be listening to me, and I 
wished to keep my hold on them, so I racked 
my mind for some other inquiry to make or 
some order to give. Before the spell was broken 
I found one : — 

" We will now find out how many of us there 
are in this boat," I announced, in the best tones 
of authority that I could assume " The first 
man in the bow will count one and the next 
man to him will count two. We will count from 
the bow back to the stern, each man taking a 
number. Begin 1 " 

" One/' came the quick response from a 
passenger who happened to be the first man in 
the bow. The enumeration continued sharply 
toward the stern. I spoke the last number. 
There were twenty-three of us in the boat 

" There are twenty-three oi us here," I 
repeated ; " there's not a ship's officer or 
seaman amopg us ; but we are extremely 
fortunate to have with us an old pea captain 
who has consented to take charge of the boat 
and save our lives. His voice is weak, but I 
will repeat the orders for him, so that all of you 
can hear. Are you ready to obey his orders ? " 

There was an almost unanimous assent to 
this, and order was restored 

" The first thing to be done," I announced, 
upon Captain Dear's instructions, "is to get 
the same number of oars pulling on each side 
of the boat, to seat ourselves so as to keep on 
an even keel, and then to keep the boat's head 
up into the wind, so that we won't be swamped 
by the waves." 

With some little difficulty this rearrangement 
was accomplished, and then we rested on our 
oars, with all eyes turned toward the still lighted 
Laconia. The torpedo had struck at about 
10.30 p.m, according to our ship's time. Though , 
listing far over on one side, the Laconia was 
still afloat It might have been twenty minutes 
after that first shot when we heard another 
dull thud, which was accompanied by a notice- 
able drop in the hulk. The German submarine 
had dispatched a second torpedo. 

We watched silently during the next minute 
as the tiers of lights dimmed slowly from white 
to yellow, then to red. At last nothing was 
left but the murky mourning of the night, 
which hung over all like a pall. 

A mean, cheese- coloured crescent of a moon 
revealed one horn above a rag-bundle of clouds 
low in the distance. A rim of blackness settled 
around our little world, relieved only by a few 

leering stars in the zenith ; and where the 
Laconia's lights had shone there remained only 
the dim outlines of a blacker hulk standing 
out above the water like a jagged headland 
silhouetted against the overcast sky. 

The ship sank rapidly at the stern. At last 
its nose rose out of the water, until it stood 
straight up in the air. Then it slid silently 
down and out of sight like a piece of disappearing 
scenery in a panorama spectacle. 

Boat No. 3, the one in which the captain 
was, stood close to the place where the ship 
had gone down. As a result of the after-suction 
the small lifeboat rocked about in a perilous 
sea of clashing spars and wreckage. The crew 
steadied its head into the wind, and just then 
a black hulk, glistening wet and standing about 
eight feet above the surface of the water, 
approached slowly to within ten feet of the 
lifeboat. It was the submarine. - 

" Vot ship vass dot ? " came in guttural 
English from a figure which projected from the 

*' The Laconia," answered Chief Steward 

" Vot ? " 

" The Laconia, Cunard Line," responded 
the steward. 

" Vot did she weigh ? " was the next question 
from the submarine. 

" Eighteen thousand tons." 

" Any passengers ? " 

" Seventy-three," replied Ballyn, " many of 
them women and children — some of them in 
this boat. She had over two hundred in the 
crew." 4 

" Did she carry cargo ? " 

" Yes." 

•• Is der captain in dot boat ? " 

•• No," Ballyn said. 

" Veil, I guess you'll be all right. A patrol 
will pick you up sometime soon," and without 
further sound, save for the almost silent fixing 
of the conning-tower lid, the submarine moved 

" I though it best to make my answers sharp 
and satisfactory, sir," said Ballyn, when he 
later repeated the conversation to me. word for 
word. " I was thinking of the women and 
children in the boat. And I feared every minute 
that somebody among us might make a hostile 
move, perhaps fire a revolver, or throw some- 
thing at the submarine. I feared the conse- 
quences of such an act." 

There was no assurance of any early pick-up 
for any of us. The weather was a great factor. 
That black rim of clouds looked ominous. 
February has a reputation for nasty weather in 
the North Atlantic. The wind was cold and 
seemed to be rising. Our boat bobbed about 
like a cork on the swells, which fortunately were 
not choppy. 

How much rougher seas could the boat 
weather ? This question was debated pro and 
con. Had our rockets been seen ? Did the first 
torpedo put the wireless out of commission ? If 
it had been able to ope/ate, had anybody heard 




our S*0 + 5. ? Was there enough food and drink- 
ing water in the boat to last ? 

This brought us to an inventory of our small 
craft- A iter considerable difficulty we iound 
t lie lamp, a can of powder flares^ the tin of ship's 
biscuit, matches* and spare oil, the usual equip- 
ment of lifeboats. 

The lamp was lighted. Other tights were now 
visible. As we drifted in the darkness we could 
see them every time we mounted the crest of the 
swells* The boats carrying these lights remained 
quite close together at first. One boat came 
within sound, and 
I recognized the 
tftirry Lauder -like 
voice of the second 
assistant purser, 
whom I had last 
heard on Wednes- 
day at the ship's 
concert* Now he- 
was singing — "I 
want to marry 
'Arry/' and " I 
love to be a 

There was an 
American woman 
with her husband 
in that boat. She 
told me later that 
an attempt had 
oeen made to sing 
** Tipper ary ,J and 
#i Rule, Britannia/' 
but the thought of 
that slinking dark 
hull of destruction 
■which might be 
lurking in the 
darkness around 
them made them 
abandon the effort. 
The fear of the 
boats crashing to- 
gether produced a 
general inclination 
toward maximum 

separation on the part of all the little units of 
survivors, with the result that soon the small 
craft stretched out for several miles, their occu- 
pants all endeavouring to hold the heads of the 
boats into the wind. 

Hours passed* Tho swells slopped over the 
sides of our boat and filled the bottom with 
'water* We bailed continually. Most of us were 
wet to the knees and shivering from the weaken* 
ing effects of the icy water. Our hands wore 
blistered from pulling at the oars. Our boat's 
bobbing about like a cork produced terrific 
nausea, and our stomachs ached from vain 

And then we saw the first light — the first sign 
of help coming — the first searching glow of white 
brilliance deep down on the sombre sides of the 
black pot of night that hung over us. 

I don't know what direction it came from — 

none of us knew north from south — there was 
nothing but water and sky* The light just came 
from over there, where we pointed* 

We nudged violently sick boat -mates and 
aroused them to an appreciation of the sight 
that gave us new life. 

It was way over there— first a trembling 
quiver of silver against the black ceiling of the 
night, then, drawing closer, it defined itself as a 
beckoning finger, although still too far away to 
see our feeble efforts to attract it. Nevertheless, 
we burned valuable flares, and the ship's baker, 



Phvt*, by fVqnJk <£ Soul, Smth. Shieldt. 

self -ordained custodian of the biscuit, did the* 
honours handsomely to the extent of a biscuit 
apiece to each of tho twenty -three occupants 
of the boat, 

" Pull starboard, sennies," sang out old 
Captain Dear, his grey chin -whiskers bristling 
with joy in the light of the round lantern which 
he held aloft. 

We pulled, pulled lustily, forgetting the strain 
and pain of innards torn and racked with violent 
vomiting, and oblivious to blistered palms and 
wet* half -frozen feet. 

Then a nodding of that finger of light, a happy, 
snapping, shooting finger, that seemed to say, 
4t Come on, you men/ 1 led us to believe that our 
lights had been seen. This was the fact, for 
immediately the on-coming vessel flashed on its 
green and red sidelights, and we saw that it was 
headed for our position. We floated of! its stern 
for & whilq. manceuvred for the best position 




in which it could take us on, for the sea was 
running higher and higher. 

The risk of that rescuing ship was great, 
because there was every reason to believe that 
the submarine that had destroyed the Laconia 
still lurked in the darkness near by. But those 
on board took the risk and stood by for the 
work of rescue. 

" Come alongside port 1 " was megaphoned to 
us. As fast as we could, we swung under the 
stern and felt our way broadside toward the 
ship. Out of the darkness above a dozen pocket 
flashlights blinked down on us, and orders began 
to be shouted thick and fast. 

When I look back on the experience, I don't 
know which was the more hazardous — going 
down the slanting side of the sinking Laconia 
or going up the side of the rescuing vessel. One 
minute the swells would lift us almost level with 
the rail of the low-built patrol boat and mine- 
sweeper, but the next receding wave would 
swirl us down into a darksome gulf, over which 
the ship's side glowered like a slimy, dripping 

A score of hands reached out, and we were 
suspended in the husky tattooed arms of those 
doughty British Jack Tars. We looked up into 
their weather-beaten youthful faces, mumbling 
our thankfulness and reading in the gold letter- 
ing of their pancake hats the legend, " H.M.S. 

We had been six hours in the open boats, all 
of which began coming alongside, one after the 
other. Wet and bedraggled survivors were lifted 
aboard, women and children first. Men who had 
remained strangers to one another aboard the 
Laconia now wrung each other by the hand, or 
embraced without shame the frail little wife of a 
Canadian chaplain, who had found one of her 
missing children delivered up from another boat. 
She smothered the chilfl with ravenous mother 
kisses while tears of gladness streamed down her 

Boat after boat came alongside. The water- 
logged craft containing the captain came last. 
A rousing cheer went up as he landed his feet 
on the deck, one mangled hand hanging limp 
at his side. 

The sailors divested themselves of outer 
clothing and passed the garments over to the 
shivering members of the Laconia' s crew. The 
cramped officers' quarters down under the 
quarter-deck were turned over to women and 
children. Two of the Laconia's stewardesses 
passed basins of boiling navy cocoa and aided 
in the disentanglement of wet and matted tresses. 
The men grouped themselves near steam pipes 

in the petty officers' quarters, or over the grating 
of the engine-room, where new life was to be 
had from the blasts of heated air that brought 
with them the smell of bilge water and oil and 
sulphur from the bowels of the vessel. 

The injured — all minor cases, sprained backs, 
wrenched legs, or mashed hands — were put away 
in bunks under the care of the ship's doctor. 

Dawn was melting the eastern ocean's grey 
to pink when the task was finished. In the 
officers' quarters, which had now been invaded 
by the men, the roll of the vessel was most 
perceptible. Each time the floor of the room 
slanted, bottles and cups and plates rolled and 
slid back and forth. 

On the tables and chairs and benches the 
women rested ; seasick mothers, trembling from 
the after-effects of the terrifying experience of 
the night, sought to soothe their crying children. 

Then somebody happened to touch the key 
on the small wooden organ that stood against 
one wall. This was enough to send some sea- 
faring fingers over the ivory keys in a rhythm 
unquestionably religious, and so irresistible 
under the circumstances that, although no one 
knew the words, the air was taken up in a 
reverent humming chant by all in the room. 

At the last note of the Amen, little Father 
Waring, his black garb snaggled in places and 
badly soiled, stood beside the centre-table and 
lifted his head until the morning light, filtering 
through the open hatch above him, shone do^n 
on his kindly, weary face. He recited the Lord's 
Prayer, and all present joined. The little service 
ended as simply as it had begun. 

With exchanges of experiences pathetic and 
humorous, we steamed into Queenstown Harbour 
shortly after ten o'clock that night. We had 
been sunk at a point two hundred miles off the 
Irish coast, and of our passengers and crew 
thirteen had been lost. 

As I stepped ashore a Britisher, a fellow- 
passenger aboard the Laconia, who knew me as 
an American, stepped up to me. During the 
voyage we had had many conversations con- 
cerning the possibility of America entering the 
war. Now he slapped mc on the back with this 
question : — 

" Well, old Casus Belli ! Is this your bloom- 
ing overt act ? " 

I didn't answer him, but thirty minutes after- 
wards I was pounding out on a typewriter the 
introduction to a four-thousand-word article, 
which I cabled that night, and which put the 
question up to the American public for an 
answer. Five weeks later the United States 
entered the war. 

by Google 

Original from 



Q M w. 


CLOSE against 
the wall and 
under the 
shadow of a 
willow, a police- 
man stood, stiffly 
alert, listening 
intently. There 
seemed no other 
living thing any- 
where in that 
lonely road. Even 
the leaves upon the 
trees had grown 
still, almost as if 
to assist the police- 
man in his listen- 
ing. And all he 
was listening to 
was a gramophone. 
The gramophone 
was playing a 
waltz. The police- 
man was in love. 

Now, all that evening the fact had been 
fixedly before his mind's eye that to ordinary 
people the idea of a policeman being in love 
was a screaming absurdity. It appeared that 
there was something entirely incongruous about 
it, and that, properly speaking, a policeman 
could play only two roles in life, either to stand 
at street corners and stare, or to sit in a kitchen 
with hi3 helmet between his knees, eating pie. 
The man in the street did not consider him brave ; 
few things caused so much general rejoicing 
as the news that a policeman had been suc- 
cessfully bonneted. As for a policeman being 
in love, that was purely stupid. Yet P.C. 
Dodson was in love. And there he stood, torn 
betwixt injured dignity and sentimental medi- 
tation ; a tall, lean man, clean-shaven, with 
hair like hay, and conventional feet ; one hand 
at his belt, the other straight by his side, and 
both enclosed in woollen gloves ; to all appear- 
ances such a typical policeman that even She 
could not imagine him anything else ; could 
not, for example, imagine him sitting by the 
fire in carpet slippers, with her upon his knee. 
He could imagine that. And though he had 
not informed her of the fact, he had at least 
told her that he was in love. 
What had her answer been ? 
At a moment when she seemed all in the world 
to him, she had looked at him once and gently 
laughed, had pushed him teasingly aside 


i \ 

Illustkated bu] 
Steven Spurriefc 

iove. Why, you're 
a policeman. Here" 
— she moved to a 
cupboard and then 
looked over her 
shoulder consol- 
ingly. " Here, 
have something to 
eat I " 

So P.C. Dodson 
stood by the wall 
and, listening to 
the gramophone in 
the house behind, 
was sad. 

Well, she should 

Oh, go on," she said. 

" You aren't 


A few weeks had 
passed and the 
nights were colder. 
Beside another 
wall, and in the 
darkness of a door- 
way, the police- 
man stood poised for sudden movement. And 
now it was not a gramophone that he could 
hear. It was the faint sound of movement ; 
a little scratching ; a very faint clang ; silence, 
and then at last a gentle tapping. 

He waited just long enough to feel sure that 
by quick dramatic action he would not make 
himself ridiculous, then clambered over the 
wall, and dropping down noiselessly into the 
yard, crept towards the building and waited 
again, listening. He was right. Someone was 
down the passage. The little door was ajar, 
and the sound of quiet movement was unmis- 
takable. Nor had he any doubt who was 
making that noise. His chance had come. 
He slowly pushed open the door and felt his 
way forward through the darkness on tip- 
toe. Fifteen yards down the passage he stopped 
and looked into the shop. In the faint light of 
a shaded lamp a man was crouched before a 
safe. The door was open and his hands were 
feeling their way inside. P.C. Dodson took a 
step forward. The man suddenly stiffened, 
turned his head. In the pitch darkness he could 
see nothing. 

" Collared ! " said the policeman. 
The man stood up and waited, half -turned 
towards him, uncertain what to do, or what was 
going to happen. 

" And you ? " said Dodson. " You are 
the skunk who was trying to take my girl 
away from ©ciq Yon thought you could get 





m, <**, 


a good girl tied to you for life. You thought 
she didn't know you did this. 11 

At first the man did not answer* He just turned 

and stared 
ness; his head 
to one side, 
and finally 
he said : — 

" Its vm, 

t" ' 
"Yes, "said 
1\C. Dad 
with relish. 
" I saw ypu 
an hour ago. 
Then I lost 
sight of you. 
But when I 
heard move- 
ment in here, 
I knew." 

clever! " said 
the other. 
" Been to a 
night -school, 
you ? " 

"Too clever 
for you, ' re- 
torted P # Ci 
Dodson. " I 
told Maggie 
what you 
were a week 
since. She 
believe me. 
Called it jeal- 
ousy, Shell 
know now." 

He paused, 
and moved 
another step 

quietly I " 

There was 
a momentary 
silence ; and 
suddenly the 
thief moved, 

" Well all 
I want is my 
share/ 1 said 
he. "I want 
what you 
Vm the man 
that stands 
to lose. I 
want my full 

son d i d u *t 
He was about to speak, then stopped. A door 
in the shop was being opened Cautious foot- 
steps were stumbling through the dark. 


&ps were stumbling through t 




" I want my full share," said the thief again, 
more loudly still. " I want more than this. 
I want my share." .... 

" Share be hanged ! " cried Dodson, and made 
for him. 

" Stop ! " 

A foot from his man Dodson turned, and the 
light of a buliseye lantern shone into his face. 

" What are you doing here ? " 

" Lord ! We're copped 1 " cried the thief, 
and blundered into the policeman. " Look out, 
Dodson, we're copped ! " 

Dodson grabbed him by the arm. The other 
struggled. Dodson held on. " It's you that's 
copped I " he shouted. " Keep still." 

But somehow it was all wrong. He was not 
a quick-thinking man. He had a vague idea 
that he was being trapped, but he was not 
sure how it was being done, or why. He knew 
only that he must hold on to this man at all 
costs. Only so could he save that little girl 
who didn't want a policeman, but who was 
fascinated by a rogue. 

She wouldn't believe the fellow was a rogue. 
He would make her. 

" What are you ekring here ? " asked the 
sergeant, again. -* r 

" Caught him in the act," said Dodson, a 
little breathlessly. " Came in and found him 
at the safe." 

'* You were talking to him," said the sergeant. 
" You hadn't got fcild of him. He was asking 
for his share. What's the meaning of that ? " 

Dodson stared at him. 

" Share ? I don't want any share. That's 
his bluff. I caught him." 

"' He's in it himself," said the thief, turning. 
" He was outisde when I came in. He's working 
with me. If I'm for it, he's for it, too." 

The sergeant turned to a constable behind 

" Take over that man, Williams," said he. 
" Dodson, you'll come with me." 

" You mean to say you believe what he 
says ? " demanded Dodson. " You think I'm 
working with him ? " 

"Never you mind what I think," said the 
other. " You come along with me. When I 
heard him asking for his share, neither of you 
knew I was in the shop. Why hadn't you got a 
hold of him ? We could hear your voice — you 
were arguing." 

Dodson was about to speak, but closed his 
mouth grimly and squared his Shoulders. All 
right, let them make fools of themselves then, 
let everybody make fools of themselves if they 
liked, Maggie and all. He handed over his 
man to the other policeman, and turned to 
follow. . . . 

They had come out into the street. , The 
sergeant dropped back and walked beside him. 
P.C. Dodson felt dazed. He could think of 
nothing to say. He looked into the immediate 
future and was startled. If he called Maggie as 
witness it might only show that she had had 
dealings with a thief, and they might arrest her, 
too. He couldn't risk that. He suddenly turned 
his eyes fixedly, contemptuously upon the figure 

of the real thief. He was being led along by the 
arm. He was offering no resistance. He was 
going so quietly that Dodson felt suspicious. 
Perhaps he didn't mind doing time as long as 
he knew he had ruined P.C. Dodson, who was 
his rival. 

Why had those other two come into the 
shop ? Had somebody spread a tale about him ? 
Was the whole thing a trap ? He felt suddenly 
helpless. The idea came to him that he was 
ringed round with enemies ; a nightmare feeling 
that everybody was pointing at him with an 
enormous finger. He could not remember a* 
single friend who would stand by him. He was 
a lonely man. He even had the reputation of 
being slow and dull. He remembered now that 
he had once been censured because there had 
been a burglary on his beat and he hadn't known 
about it. They would remember that. They 
would bring it up against him. A lump rose in 
his throat. 

They were at the station and he was being 
ushered in. He stood by, dully, while particulars 
were taken down. He heard them spelling out 
the man's name. Joseph Henry Miller. Yes, 
that was the chap. He had given his right 
name. Of course, it wouldn't be any use doing 
anything else. The police knew something about 
him. Then he was taken away. 

They were turning to him now. The sergeants 
were talking about him. 

" You'll need to be searched, Dodson." 

" Searched ? " 

" Come inside." 

He followed them in. They began going 
through his pockets. He stood limply before 
them. At last one drew forth a little bundle of 
papers, triumphantly. 

" What's this ? " 

He looked down with wide eyes. They were 
notes — money — he had never seen them before 
in his life. 

" What's this ? " 

" I don't know," he said, huskily. " I don't 
know. I've never seen them before." 

" But they're in your own pocket, man." 

It was plain to him now. In that struggle in 
the dark, Miller had made sure of his revenge. 
The case against him was complete, 

" Miller must have put them in," said he, 
" that's all." 

" All right," said the sergeant. " You're 
under arrest." Dodson began to speak. After 
all, he had his own tale to tell. It was credible 
enough. Why shouldn't they believe him ? 
He started to explain with a new confidence. 

The sergeant cautioned him. 

His voice trailed away into silence. 

At last he was alone, left standing in that 
square little room. His thoughts were stupidly 
jumbled. There came back to him those silly 
teasing words : " Why, you're a policeman. 
Here, have something to eat." 

He could no more have eaten pie that night 
then he could have eaten his helmet. He hated 
pie. He sat down on a form and covered his 
face with his hantislJndl 




He had seen the court often enough before, 
but somehow it all seemed different. For one 
thing he couldn't sec the dock. Of course not. 
How stupid I He was in it himself. It seemed 
a long time since the magistrate had glowered 
at him and said : " Com nutted for trial "—a 
long, long time. Now liis trial was actually 
taking place* 

Even now he could not believe that they would 
accept this ridiculous cock-and-bull story which 
had been rigged up against him. 

But be was being pointed at, The court was 
being told what a wicked man he was. He 
looked at them woodcnlv. 

so used to being thought a thief that he 
could not work up excitement even for this, 
the climax of his suffering. 

Now they were pointing at Miller, 

He was so tired of this long story. 

At last Miller was giving evidence against 
him — such evidence — a wonderful tale ; and 
the sergeant, always a spiteful fellow. Even 
now he didn't know quite why the sergeant 
had appeared just when he did, just when 
Miller was loudly demanding his share. After 
luncheon, his own counsel was upon his feet, 
and P.C. Dodson listened attentively. 

Yes, he was telling the truth ; all except 
Maggie's part. He hadn't told that even to 
the lawyers. They'd tried to get some- 
thing more out of him, but he wouldn't bring 
in her name. The rest was true ; a good strong 

His character ? The sergeant (recalled) had 
sometimes thought him slack* Lately he had 
had his suspicions. Then they tried to rake up 
that old burglary against him. 

When at last he returned to the court to 
hear the verdict, he felt sleepy. He could 
not take proper interest. tie had become 

Even if he were set free, would he be happy 
in the force? They might have a "down" 
on him. They would think 

" Guilty ! " 

He heard them, and turned his eyes glassily 
towards the judge. What ? He and Miller ? 
Both guilty ? How ? It was absurd 1 He 
opened his mouth to speak, caught his counsel's 
eye, and stared at him wildly* 

" But " he began. 

Words would not come. He was dumb with 
astonishment. He turned his tired eyes quickly, 
and looked round the court as if even now 'Maggie 
might be somew T here there to speak for him. 
No friendly glance met him from any direction . 
Cold despair seized him instead. He was a 
pol iceman . He had been trusted. His sentence 
was to be more severe than Miller's. Miller 
had scored, 

11 Twelve months I M 

He would have his hair cropped I 

Late that night the only consolation in all 
the ghastly business occurred to him sardonic 
cally as GfritijIUfeal fo those who have suffered 




beyond the limit of their endurance, and he 
laughed. once r hysterically. 

He was no longer a police man I 

She could never doubt again whether it was 
conceivable for him to love. 


Ik those long months, many of the little 
mannerisms which folk had once noticed in 
Do<lson vanished, and his whole mind and 
bearing became obsessed with a single, lasting 
though , vengeance. 

He choked the idea that he might one day 
be accepted as a likely lover, and instead of 
the thing that might have been, he concentrated 
upon the thing that was, 

He had never seen Miller since his trial. 
But in his mind's eye he saw Miller day in, 
day out, and especially at night. He saw him, 
leering, and knew the joy of reaching out and 
twisting his neck, slowly and deliberately, 
digging in his finger-nails, and growling at him 
between clenched teeth. He saw him sitting 
at table and being served with a cup of tea 
by Maggie, which was absurd, for he knew that 
he* too, was in prison. Nevertheless, he gained 
relief from picturing the scene, in order that he 
might imagine himself creeping in through the 
doorway and hitting him on the head with an 
axe. He remembered over and over again 
the last look Miller had given him> as they left 
the dock — a look of triumphant satisfaction — 
and whenever he remembered that look he felt 
himself hitting Miller in the face with a blow 
that disfigured him for life. 

Sometimes he paced round his cell, making 
gestures and murmuring his own strong case 
over and over again ; wondering all the while 
why nobody believed him, 

said that when he heard somebody coming," 
he used to whisper, " It was spite, I'd come 
upon him. He'd broken open the safe. We 
were in love with the same girl/' And then 
he would suddenly say ** No PJ quite loudly. 
M No, I won't say that, Well keep her out 
of it, They might arrest her." 

And finally he would stop and stiffen, raising 
a clenched fist to his side, and staring at nothing 
with a slow smile, 

" A few more months/' he would say, " and 
I can kill him," 

So the months passed, and as the end drew 
near he grew less odd, more like himself. He 
did this deliberately, in case they should think 
him mad and keep him locked up when Miller 
was free, but it was difficult, and the constant 
self -control was a wearing effort. 

He wendered what he would do when he came 
out. First, of course, he would kill Miller. 
But afterwards ? How would he live ? Per- 
haps he would not want to, Should he go 
and see Maggie ? Shoi Id he try to explain ? 
He thought not. She might be married. 

There was the chance, anyway, that she might 
bang the door in his face. And then he would 
suddenly laugh stupidly to himself. 

11 Why, of course — how idiotic I " he would 
say. " If I kill Miller, they 11 kill me." 

So his time passed. 

They set Mm free suddenly. It was unex- 
pected, and he took the clothes and the bit oi 
money they handed to him dully, 1 " and looked 
at them ; and then they pointed out the w T ay 
to him. 

" You'll be going into the Army, of course ? J * 

Dodson stared at them. 

" Army ? "Original from 



" Yes. The war, you know." 

" War ? " 

They grinned and left him. 

" War ? " said he to himself. " Yes, of 
course. There's a war on. I'll go and join 
up. If there's a war they won't mind Miller 
being shot. He'll be in the Army already. 
We'll go to the war together, and then, when 
we get there, I'll shoot him, and they won't 
know I did it." 

He could not find Miller. The Army was a 
very big concern. There were a lot of men in 
it. Some were even called Miller. One he 
met was called Joseph Miller. But Joseph 
Henry Miller he could not find. 

He made few friends. For one thing he was 
not good company. He moved from camp to 
camp until it seemed to him that his name and 
religion must be entered in some forty or fifty 
thousand different books, none of which had 
any bearing one upon the other, or, indeed, 
upon anything else in particular. 

Sometimes he wondered whether the name of 
Joseph Henry Miller was entered in any of these 
books, and, if so, how he was going to find it. 

At last he was drafted to France. 

He grew used to shell-fire and to acute dis- 
comfort. Compared with the months spent 
in prison the life was not unbearable. He was 
invariably tired, but in many ways he enjoyed 
the ceaseless work and the noise. It was so 
much better than the hideous monotony of 
silence he had known. He saw sights that 
were worse than any street accidents he had 
ever seen, and looked upon death in a new light. 
He grew used to talking to a man one minute, 
going round the corner, and coming back to 
find the man was dead. 

The fourth year of war passed. 

Suddenly a change came into life out there. 

There were sweeping forward movements. 

Trenches were left behind. He found himself 
moving forward, with others, through country 
comparatively unshelled, where things were 
green and trees had leaves. War became more 
enervating. There were encounters with odd 
parties of the enemy in open country. Scouting 
and the work of outposts became more inter- 
esting. He grew a little more cheerful. He 
could bear anything but monotony. 

Suddenly, and at last, he came across Miller. 

Miller was in a village street, leaning against 
a wall. He was not looking Dodson's way, and 
Dodson stood for a very long time and stared. 
At last he tried to identify Miller's cap badge ; 
he looked at the patches of colour" on Miller's 
tunic, and wondered which unit they denoted. 
At last he moved away and sat down to think. 
His heart was thumping excitedly against his 
ribs. There was a dryness in his throat. Miller 
was within his reach. 

Dodson's day was coming. He must on no 
account lose him now. He must make quick 
plans. What should he do ? Should he walk 
boldly up and slit his throat "with a bayonet ? 
Should he snipe him from where he lay ? Should 

by LiOOglC 

he hurl a bomb ? No. He wanted to talk to 
Miller first. He had a lot to say to him. What 
he must do was to coax him into the open, and 
when he had him covered with a rifle, he would 
begin to tell him all he had been thinking since 
that never-to-be-forgotten night when he had 
come upon him at the safe. 

He would watch Miller gradually going grev— 
stammering excuses. At last, when he had Aim 
staring with the glazed loot of a frightened 
rabbit, his cheeks damp with fear, he would 
shoot, and that would be the excellent end. 
Since he had been in France he was conscious 
that he had probably killed a number of men, 
<wme of whom, despite their hereditary beastli- 
ness, had not done anything quite so low as 
Miller. Possibly because they had not lived long 
enough. Well, he would shoot Miller anyway. 

How to do it ? 

First he must know where Miller was to be 
found. He noticed a man who was passing and 
who evidently belonged to Miller's battalion. 
He called to him. 

" What mob are you, mate ? " 

The other told him and passed on. 

He knew the Division now. They were in the 
same corps ; lately, they had been in the line 
together. He wondered why he had not seen 
Miller before. 

For a long time he sat thinking. 

When next he looked, Miller had gone. 

Dodson rose to his feet and walked back to 
his billet.. 

That evening news came to him. 

" There's a show coming off," said a man. 
The man ^vore that little red armlet at the 
bottom of his sleeve which indicates to the 
curious that the wearer may know something ; 
it is the mark of the runner. 

" When ? " demanded Dodson. 

44 Day after to-morrow, they say. A pretty 
big attack. We're in it — going for the railway." 

For perhaps the first time since ho had been 
in France, Dodson showed a lively interest. 
He wondered if Miller's division were in it. He 
asked. Yes, rumour had it they were operating 
on the flank. 

That night Dodson lay awake. He was not 
restless. He just lay stiffly beneath his over- 
coat and stared with wide eyes into the dark. 
And in his imagination he went through a list 
of all the cruellest things he could do to Miller, 
wondering which would give him the greatest 
pleasure. And under his breath he kept repeat- 
ing : " It s Dodson's turn now." 

It did not M?em strange to him that he should 
have come upon Miller. He saw no odd coinci- 
dence about it. To him it had always been a 
certainty that one day he would come up with 
this man, and wreak his vengeance. He had 
been patient. He had known how to wart 
Now, at last, his turn was coming, and not a 
day too soon. Peace was on everybody's tongue. 
At any time now the war might be over, and it 
would consequently be more difficult to kill 
Joseph Henry Miller. 

At dawn the next morning they attacked. 




The barrage was not remarkable. There were 
no longer trench systems that required blotting 
out. The Boche was holding an elaborate 
series of post** Dodson went forward grimly, 
and noticed that casualties were light and the 
German artillery retaliation weak. But his sole 
intention was to break away from his own 
platoon as soon as he could, and go in search 
of Miller. He had no real reason to believe that 
he could find Miller. His battalion might be in 
support. He himself might not be a man behind 
a bayonet at all. He might be a storeman or 
an officer's servant. Dodson didn't know. But 
that particular instinct which is given to those 
whose brain is growing weak with strain told him 
with strange persistency that it would be all 
right. Fate was upon his side. He had only to 
exert his will to achieve, and Miller would be 
within his grasp. Deep down in the bottom of 
his heart he was certain, of it. yet subconsciously 
certain ; that is to say, he did not know it was 
instinct prompting him any more than a hungry 
dog knows it is instinct taking him homeward. 

Out in the open, he became separated from 
his company. It was not difficult. There was 
a certain amount of shelling, and it was easy to 
duck down at the right moment, to take the 
wrong direction, or to be caught up and carried 
along on a wave of the flank battalion's men. 
By devious ways he headed for the flank upon 
which Miller's division were operating, and as 
he went he looked about him with hard, uncanny 
eyes, a bunch of hay-like hair showing beneath 
his tin hat, a streak of mud across his forehead. 
It was difficult to spot his man. Everybody 
was so alike — just extended lines of men in 
khaki moving forward — every man much of a 
size, every man similarly equipped. Nobody 
looked at him. Nobody seemed to have missed 
him ; he was not being pursued by an angry 
N.C.O. — evidently they would consider him hit. 
And as he went he muttered to himself 
again aid a^ain: — 

" Miller, mv boy, it is my day— Dodson* $ 

IJnawares, he came into the thick of a fight. 
The Boches were holding out in a ruined farm. 
A machine-gun was stuttering its message from 
an outhouse. He dropped down on his face and 
waited. Men in khaki were crawling round the 
flanks, and, when they had encircled it, began 
firing into the brickwork. A section of our own 
Vickers guns came into action and fired a few 
belts into the ruins. This proved effective. 
There was a rush through the grass. He heard 
shouting. They were storming the farm. 
Presently there came comparative silence. A 
few men in field grey scurried out into the open 
and were chivvied back to the rear. The waves 
of khaki moved on irregularly. Dodson still 
waited. Well forward a man had caught his 
eye. He had turned round to look behind him. 
Dodson stared, every nerve in his body tense. 
He scrambled to his feet and went forward 
rapidly ; dropped at last in the grass when he 
could see his man distinctly. Once again he 
turned. It was Joseph Henry Miller. 

Dodson looked to his rifle, and settled himself 
V.,. .WL-13. 

in the grass. He had forgotten to arrange for 
his own protection after the event. The fact 
that somebody might see him shooting Miller 
had quite slipped his memory. 

Then Miller got up and went forward, and at 
that moment shrapnel burst in front of him, and 
he shielded his face, then tottered and fell 
forward. The others went on. But Miller lay 
where he fell. 

Up in the air sprang Dodson, fierce with in- 
sensate wrath. He swore a long and bitter 
oath, stood for a moment, then sank on to one 
knee and looked at Miller forlornly. There 
were not many fellows about. Whilst the fight 
at the farm had been in progress the flanks had 
gone well ahead. There were very few men 
behind him, and such as there were seemed 
chiefly interested in their own particular job 
at the moment. 

And suddenly Miller moved. With a slow, 
glad smile, Dodson watched him struggle to a 
sitting position and look around him. He 
could not see where he was hit — probably in 
the leg. Dodson decided that he could still 
enjoy his kill. To Dodson this was not merely 
a wounded man, and one of his side at that. 
It was Miller. He crawled a little nearer, 
and settled himself behind a boulder. He 
wanted to talk to Miller ; but he must have 
him Co vered first. Also he must get near enough 
to make it unnecessary for him to shoot. Still 
Miller hadn't seen him. They were nearly 
alone now ; though there was movement 
everywhere, none was near enough to trouble 
him. At all costs he must continue to be alone 
with Miller. He worked his way a little nearer. 
And then quite suddenly Miller turned and 
saw him. It was hard to know whether he 
recognized Dodson at once, or whether he 
knew a moment's doubt. That Dodson could 
not say. Only Miller twisted round quickly 
and reached for his rifle ; next moment he had 
Dodson covered. And then he cried : — 
" Keep still 1 Don't move an inch ! " 
Dodson moved. 

There was a blinding flash in his eyes, and then 
the whistle of a bullet passed his head. He 
dropped on to his hands, nearly sobbing with 
excitement, and fumbled with the safety-catch 
of his own rifle. His heart was beating wildly 
and he moved his head. On the instant, it 
seemed, Miller fired again-*- and a third time. 

So there came a pause and a curious silence ; 
in the distance occasional shells were bursting. 
Yet they seemed curiously isolated. 

At last Dodson looked up. Miller no longer 
held a rifle at his shoulder ; he was resting on 
one arm and watching. Dodson saw his chance 
and brought up his own weapon with a quick 

" You silly fool ! " cried Miller. " Look 
behind you ! " 

He did not duck.* He did not soem afraid, 
did not even reach again for his rifle. Dodson 
hesitated, his- finger on the trigger. God knows 
why he waited. It was the moment for which 
he had longed all through a weary, hideous age, 
and, now it had come, he was hesitating. Nor 




" I saw you some days ago," said he* "I 
guessed you'd come after me." 

Dodson said notliing. 

" You were in love with that girl/* said Miller, 

M Yes," said Dodsou. " Of course. ,*' 

was it altogether because he could not say 
what he wanted to say without shouting. He 
hesitated chictfy, one may suppose, because 
Miller didn't seem in the least afraid, and that 
rather spoilt things. He had expected to have 
Miller white and quaking at the very muzzle 
of his rifle, gripped by the terror of a little two- 
man battle in an isolated corner of an attack 
by three British armies. 

" Look round, man ! " cried Miller again. 
" Look round, man I " 

So at last Dodson released his finger from the 
trigger and turned his head- 

Behind Mm, and evidently on their way 
from the farm to a point from which they 
could shoot him in the back, lay two figures 
in field grey, their rifles clutched in their hands* 
One, shot dead in the act of kneeling, had fallen 
in an odd position to one side, Ms rifle half-way 
to his shoulder* The other lay stiffly upon 
his face. 

11 Were you firing at them /" called Dodson, 
turning at last ; and his voice was husky. 

" Sure." 

N Hang you, you've saved my life I ,J cried 
Dodson, despairingly* 

" Why, yes/' admitted Miller. w What 
have you saved to-day ? " 

There was a pause, They 
other. Then Dodson buried 
hands and burst into tears. 

For a little while Miller regarded him thought' 
fully, and at last he called : — 

" Come over here I " 

Dodson rose obediently to his feet and came 
like a child. Reaching Miller, he sat down 
on the grass beside him and looked awav. 

Presently Miller spoke. There was only one 
topic to discuss* 


"So was I." said Miller, with sudden fore*?. 
" God knows how I cared for her, I was going 
straight, after I met her. She altered my idea 
of things. I meant never to steal again, and I 
made up my mind to it. She didn't know. I 
wanted her never to have any reason to know." 

He paused. 

" You told her/* he snapped. ** You were 
a policeman and you reckoned your job in life 
ivas to sneak about a chap's weakness behind 
his back, and spoil his only chance of making 

" I was afraid she'd be trapped/* said Dodson. 
" I thought- 

looked at each 
his face in his 

by Google 

No fear of that, 1 loved that girl as I 
never loved any living creature on God's earth 
before or since. And I was going straight.'* 

* ( Well, she didn't believe me/ 1 said Dodson, 
almost apologetically, 

" Yes, she did. She told mc I was a thief 
and I hadn't the face to deny it. She sent me 

Again he paused. 

" I couldn't forgive you/' said he. "How 
could I ? Sometimes I tried. It was no good, 
1 couldn't bear to think of you and her by the 
fireside, and me in jail* I made up my mind 
to get my own back P I sent an anonymous 
letter to your inspector and told him to watch 
your dealings with me. I wrote to her too. 
I said : ' You may think he's straight because 
he's dressed up in blue ; but he's worse than me. 
He's a policeman, and until lately he was 
working with me. Now he's jealous and he's 
stabbed me in the back/ That's all. Then I 
lay in wait for you, I got you that night fair 
and square. I knew the sergeant was about. 
I let him see me. I let you sec me, Then I 
broke in, I knew Td be collared, but 1 didn't 
care, all I wanted was to break you 1 " 

He seemed to have finished* 

Dodson looked at him dully* 

" I meant to go straight,** said Miller, once 
again* " You took away my only chance 
Well. I got my revenge. I thought so, anyway, 
till I came out. All those months in the cell 
were Heaven to me. All the time I suffered I 
knew you were suffering too. When I came out 
it suddenly seemed different. I began to wonder 
if she was vcalf.y fond of you — if I'd taken away 




you tell her, then ? " asked 


the man she'd wanted, just as you 
took away the girl I wanted. If so, 
I'd injured her as much as you* 
J couldn't rest then h and at last, 
'nouths afterwards — when it was too 
late — I went to find out." 

M She's married ? " demanded Dodson. 

Miller shook his head, 

11 She's waiting for you still," said he, regret 

" For me? ,f 

He nodded, 

"What did 

" Everything. It scorns she only teased you 
Ixrcaus© you were so stow — bashful -3 ike. But 
she wanted you. It was too late + They'd set 
you free* I promised to try and find you. 
At last, when I saw you in that village — 
oh, yes, I did — I hadn't the pluck to face 
it. I found out your battalion and wrote 
you a letter, asking you to meet mc if you 
felt inclined ! ' J 

11 I never got it," said Dodson. 

-i You haven't had time/' 

There came a long, long silence, 
men were not looking at one another, 

At last Dodson looked up. 

" I'm due for leave," said he, 
known where to go to, till now." 

" Go to her/' said Miller. H * The war's nearly 
over. This isn't a battle. They're on the run. 
Yon go home, and she can begin to get ready 
for you." 

" I can't get married/' said Dodson, " I've 
got no job to go to — no money/ 1 

" You'll be all right," said Miller " I wrote 
a confession to the police about you. They'll 
get you a job. You can go back to the 

" I'm not going to be a policeman again 
for anybody/' said Dodson, wildly. " People 
think all you want in life is something to 

Then at last he looked up at Miller wonder- 

" Where arc you hit ? " 

" Hit ? " said Miller, " Tm not hit." 

" But you fell ! " 

" Why, yes* I knew you were behind, and I 

The two 

I hadn't 

by Google 

wanted to drop back and tell you all tlas. It 
was my only chance/' 

But weren't you afraid ?" 

" Afraid ? No/' 

" I meant to kill you." 

" I was in the Battle of the Sormnc/' said 
Miller, simply. " A good many other people 
have tried to kill me since then, too, but no- 
body's done^it yet." 

" You were nearly a goner, all the same/' 

** I've been nearer/' said Miller. ** Some- 
times I've walked across the open with a cigar- 
ette between my lips when it's seemed that men 
have been lying right across France and every 
one pointing a howitzer at me/' 

They looked at each other. 

At last Miller got up. 

" Shall we be going on ? " said he. " We've 
some way to catch up." 

Dodson nodded his head. 

" May as well/' said lie. And from his 
pocket he drew a crumpled packet of cigarettes, 
and silently proffered it to Miller. So Miller 
accepted the courtesy with a nod and felt in Us 
pocket for a match, 

11 I've heard that tune somewhere before," 
said Dodson. thoughtfully. 

Maggie looked up at hint with big eyes that 
were wells of admiration, 

" Have you ? " said she, " Where ? " 

* f In a house/' said Dodson. " They played 
it on a gramophone, and I was standing outside." 

11 How funny/' said Maggie. " vou remember- 

Dodson slipped liis hand through her arm 
and drew her a little closer. 

"I'll tell you about it," said he. " It's nnt 
so funny as you think. You'd just offered me 
something to cat." 

" I'm sorry/' said Maggie. " Til never do 
it a^ain." 

" Oh, yes, you will/' said Dodson, " now 
you've married me/' 

Original from 



J. A. Shepherd 

The fol lowing New Series of 
this popular feature by Mr, 
J. A. Shepherd, the greatest 
living artist of animal life; will 
be exhibited simultaneously at 
the principal Cinemas through * 
out the country in animated 
form by Mr, Ernest H. Mills, 
controlled bv Kine Komeoy 
Kartoons, 66, Shaftesbury 
Avenue, WX, 

ILLS are always important 
things, even among our- 
selves, but among birds 
bills must loom larger 
than among the most 
impecunious human thus 
afflicted. The bird always has a bill 
before its eyes, night and day, and 

3y Google 

Original from 



precious long 
bills some of 
them are, The 
heron, the tou- 
can, the egret, 
the flamingo con- 
template bills of 
terrifying pro- 
portions, and 
that with per- 
fect composure, 
although there 
is certainly 
crooked about 
the bill ever 
present to the 
gaze of the 
1 la mill go. But, 
indeed, here at 
the Zoo the 
finest of the 
flamingos has 
greater troubles 
to worry him. 
for his very long 
and exposed legs 
are the victims 
of a chronic and 
painful rheuma- 
tism. It is a sad 
affliction for so 
splendid a fellow, 
such a splen- 
diferous dandy, 
and in him we 
see plainly the 
avian equivalent 
of some of those 
elderly bucks 
whose gallant 
attire and dyed 
moustaches are 
to be observed 
at times a good 
deal south of. 
Regent's Park, 
Such mature 
youths owe much 
to their valets, 
and Sam, the 
flamingo, here 
really needs a 
valet for himself. 
The Park parade 
is nothing with 
out Mm. hut In 
expect Sam to 
show himself to 
advantage in 
that fashionable 
pageant, with his 
afflictions and 
no valet, is 
nothing but a 
manifestation of 
cruelty to fla- 
mingos, A busy, 




assiduous pen 
gii in would suit 
the situation, 
always ready 
with gentle mas- 
sage to legs and 
feathers, sooth- 
ing and encour- 
aging, and wait- 
ing respectfully 
with hat and 
stick while the 
gallant invalid 
gets over the fit 
of trembling in- 
duced by the 
exertions neccs 
sary to fit him 
for his duties to 

It might be 
worth while in- 
quiring if Sam 
were called after 
Sam Storey, tin- 
music-hall comt ■ 
dian of a genera- 
tion ago, Any- 
body who re- 
members that 
performer in 
his burlesque 
character as a 
ballet -girl, red of 
nose and long 
and bony of 
limb, need only 
take a glance at 
our rheumatic 
friend to per- 
ceive that if this 
were not so then 
at least it should 
have been. 

The tale , of 
the loves of the 
spoonbill and 
the ibis was a 
short and. after 
all, not a tragic 
one. The spoon- 
ing of the spoon- 
bill is a good 
deal more im- 
press i v e seen 
sideways, by 
the way, that; 
from the front, 
Nothing more 
elegant than the 
head, neck, and 
bill of a spoon- 
bill seen from 
the side — slim, 
graceful, and 
light ; nothing 
less so than the 
same head from 



the front — round, bulbous, and 
altogether of the low comedian* 
For the little while it lasted, 
the love affair of the sixionbill 
and the ibis went fast and 
merry. They even went so far 
03 ' H getting the sticks together " 
-in a pretty literal sense, for 
the spoonbill idea of a nest and 
the ibis notion of the same are 
both of a sketchy and scram bly 
nature. Meau while, the legitimate 

(RE PARING i ok 

OR THE PARK PARAD%j g j n a | f fQ m 





Mrs. Spoonbill and 
the orthodox Mr, 
Ibis looked on with 
gloomy disap- 
proval. But all 
was well and ended 
well for the faithful 
spouses, after all, 
For long before the 
aviary had really 
tegan to form <t 
definite notion of 
what amazing new 
sort of bill the new 
firm would render 
in its posterity, the 
spoonbill began to 
jjerceive that after 
all* when it came 
to bills, none was 
so fascinating as 
another spoonbill 
like his own ; and 
the ibis became 
persuaded that no- 
where, even in 
Whitechapel, could 
quite such a beak 
be encountered as 
that of her first 

Not that the 
ibis's returning 
affection was wholly 
founded on fact, for 
no doubt she had 
the ordinary beaks 
of the ordinary 
aviary in view and 
mind — the egret, 




Original from 

great and little, 
with his hump and 
ruffled plumage, the 
heron, the ruff, and 
the rest of them ; 
she was forgetting, 
or more probably 
could not see, the 
glorious and wholly 
invincible beak, 
much nearer than 
WhitechapeU of the 

The Ground 
Horn bill (Eucomis 
abyssiniats — and 
surely any bird with 
a name like that 
deserves a beak fit 
to balance it — has 
rather the appear- 
ance of a secretary 
bird who has come 
to a fancy-dress 
ball in the character 
of a wet umbrella, 
with a very big 
handle* L He plays a 
perpetual practical 
joke on the Elate 
Hombiil next dooi\ 
The Elate I lorn bill 
is also called Sphag- 
oi obits atratus, and 
any bird who can 
remain elate while 
dragging a name 
like that about the 
world deserves a 
better reward than 





the annoyance of the insistent joker next door. rattling down from its perch with a noise as of a 

For the Ground Hornbill is continually knocking maid-of-HI-work falling downstairs with all the 

at the Elate 's door, with all the severe business implements of her profession in a heap. Any 

air of a rate-collector. The Klate, with a gorgeous sort of hornbiJl can make more noisu than any 

touzle of shocking hair, comes floundering and other sort of animal twenty times its size, 

" OH, GO AWAY. DO I " 






and the Elate 
does this 
whenever the 
Ground Horn- 
bill knocks; 
and as to 
the frequency 
of the attack 
— w ell, the 
joker has posi- 
tively worn a 
notch in his 
enormous beak 
— taken some- 
thing off his 
bill, so to say 
—in pursuit of 
his unceasing 
practical joke. 
The many 
casualties o f 
the war have 
left vacancies 
in many cages 
now or recently 
filled by do- 
mestic fowl, 
who find them- 
selves in very 
and uncivil- 
ized, not to say 
sur roundings. 
Now, however 


that the war 
ends, we may 
look to Cap- 
tain Flower, 
of the Giza 

Zuo ill K-y]v(. 

to supply us 
here with some 
of the birdri 
common about 
him — Pelican 
Pasha, let us 
say, Marabou 
Bey, and Shoe - 
bill ErTendi, 
Also the long- 
training of the 
animals them- 
selves as Zoo 
officials may 
be suspended . 
and a revived 
interest in 
sport will bring 
fresh attention 
to Sandy, the 
orang - utarc. 
who fishes for 
watef from a 
little tank 
with so dex- 
terous a dry- 
fly fisher's turn 
of. the wrist. 




Nothing could be more complete than Sandy's drinks while waiting for the real official think - 
performance with a straw, whereby he keeps a great performance which we must deal with in 
himself amused and supplied with unofficial the next chapter* 


'" »^^FffiFfWr|» THERE i 





by Google 

Original from 



ABOUT three o'clock 
in the afternoon 
of a fine summer 
day Miss Gab- 
rielle Preston Wayne, aged 
thirteen, and Miss Dulcie 
Blondell, aged twelve and 
t'iree-quarters, the daughter 
of the Squire of King's 
Woolley and the grand- 
daughter of the Vicar of 
Woolley St. Ninian's, came into the ancient 
but prosperous town of W'esthampton, seated 
in a smart black and red toy dog-cart, spanking 
along at five miles an hour behind a plump 
white pony, and got up to kill at anything 
under a thousand yards. The equipage was 
Gabrielle 's ; the glory, however, of having 
invented its present employment was Dulcie 's. 
Each therefore had her own cause for self- 
satisfaction, which dangerous sentiment was 
strongly reflected both in the expression and 
the carriage of these young ladies. 

Gabrielle was dark and slender. She wore 
a double-breasted driving-coat of fawn linen 
with big pearl buttons, a knowing white cross- 
over stock with a horseshoe pin in it, thick white 
gauntlets, a scarlet rose in h^r buttonhole, and 
a captivating fawn beaver hat, from beneath 
which a great lovelock of thick dark-brown 
hair, tied with an immense bow that exactly 
matched her rose, flowed down upon one shoulder. 
She sat up, as serious and as stiff as a poker, 
to accept the public s admiration. 

The other child, who clutched a glorious 
bunch of white roses to her small body, wore 
a white muslin dress, a huge hat of the same 
material, a broad pale pink sash, white kid 
gloves that fitted like a second skin, and a 
string of pale pink coral round her plump neck. 
Her eyes were large and blue and shining, her 
nose was small and snub, her cheeks were round 
and rosy, her lips were parted with emotion, 



Illustrated by 

and her short golden hair 
stood out all round her head 
in a haze of splendour. 

At the beginning of the 
town, as they approached 
the railway bridge which 
spanned their path, she sud- 
denly pointed and, " Oh, 
Gaby," she said, in a hushed 
voice. " Look ! " 

" Yes," said Gabrielle, ab- 
sently, "that's her. George, you old pig," she 
added to the pony, " get a move on, can't you ?" 
She smote the animal lightly with her whip, and 
he moved his ears one inch backwards in acknow- 
ledgment of her suggestion that, just for once, 
he should enter Westhampton with some small 
regard for the decencies. " Sometimes," said 
Gabrielle, " I rimply loathe George. He doesn't 
care what people think." 

"Oh, bother George," said Dulcie. "Just 
look- Isn't she a dear ? " 

Near the railway arch was a hoarding covered 
with posters. Prominent among these was 
one which represented a little girl of uneartlily 
loveliness, simply dressed in a very short, very 
ragged black gown and nothing more, so far 
as could be seen, whatever. Through the 
white clouds of the blinding snowstorm which 
surrounded her, the window of a crapulous 
public-house, upon which black appliqu£ letter- 
ing spelt out the words, " The Load of Hay." 
cast its baleful light upon her left shoulder. 
Her large, tear-dimmed eyes gazed reproach- 
fully at the entry of this building. Her poor 
little bare feet were planted in snow. Snow 
lay thickly upon her hair and dress. It must 
have been horribly cold for her, but neither 
her hands nor her nose gave any evidence of 
the circumstance. Indeed, everywhere she was 
very pale. 

Underneath her, across the white foreground 

of the pic 

neath her, 
ictvue. ran 


thy legend. " Will he never 



oh/ said dulcje. 'just look, isn't she a dear?'*' 

come ? " and above, in much bolder lettering, 
this waa to be read : — 

S I N 

M O N A. 

"Oh," cried Dulcie, 

be in ? " 

do you think she'll 

j by Google 

"Of course she will/' said Gabriclle, sharply, 
and, "George," she added between her teeth, 
" if you don't buck up 111 give you one for your- 
self that you'll remember.'* The threat was 
an empty one, as she knew very welb George, 
conscious that public opinion is on the side o( 
Oppressed horses, and i Lilly aware that he was 
no longer on the lonely high road P maintained 
his slug's progress imperhirbably. And Gabrielle 



and incurring the censure of the World there 
was but one choice for her. But her next 
birthday seemed very far away, the day on which 
the decent George was, on the word of her 
father, to be replaced by a beast with some 
small amount of blood and fire in his composi- 

Nothing more was said until they had come 
through Castle Street and had emerged into the 
Market Square, but here a second hoarding 
and a second picture of The Child Mona extorted 
from Dulcie fresh evidence of the anxiety 
which consumed her. " Oh ! " she whispered, 
" if she's not in, I shall cry. I know I shall. " 

"Some day," said Gabrielle, " if I have to 
drive this George much longer, I shall swear. 
And it'll be father's fault." 

The second picture showed The Child Mona 
surrounded by benevolent and well -dressed 
people in a room that was full of flowers. A very 
old man and a young woman knelt by the bed 
in which, smiling ecstatically, the little girl 
lay, gazing upwards with eyes that already 
pierced the Veil. A doctor in a frock-coat 
of iron, watch in hand and finger on lip, counted 
the last pulse-beats of the patient. A stout, 
uniformed nurse soothed the sobs of a boy in 
Etons. Beyond the open window angels hovered 
on large white wings and made iriviting gestures. 
Underneath was written, " I hear them calling. 
I see them beckoning." 

Dulcie's eyes grew moist as she gazed at 
this moving design. " Poor little thing," she 
said, softly. " Isn't she sweet ? " 

They passed the Royal Theatre. Here there 
were many pictures of The Child Mona, both 
posters and framed photographs and large 
yellow bills which announced her appearance, 
for six night only, in the r6le of Paula in " Sin," 
a drama in five Acts and a prologue, written 
by Bruntsfield Harper, and presented (at so much 
a seat) to the public of Westhampton, by 
Charles Moselle. 

" Perhaps," said Dulcie, a spasm of fear con- 
tracting her brow, " perhaps she sleeps all day. 
She must get frightfully tired acting every 
night till half -past ten, a little delicate girl 
like her. Oh, Gaby, do you think she won't 
be up yet ? Do you think they won't let her 
come driving with us ? Do you think we ought 
to have waited till after tea ? She'll be sure 
to be up by tea-time, won't she ? " 

44 I wish to goodness you'd thought of that 
before, Dulcie," said her friend, doubtfully. 
" But now we're here we may as well ask. 
P'r'aps we'd better not get the chocolates till 
we know if she can come." 

" Oh, no," Dulcie cried. " Supposing she 
can come ? It would be rotten if we didn't 
have the chocolates with us. It wouldn't be 
the same thing a bit, if we had to stop and 
buy them after we'd got her. Pull up at 
Catesby's. I won't be a minute. Hold the 

Before George had come to rest by the kerb, 
she had sprung out of the cart and rushed into 
the shop of Westhampton 's leading confectioner. 
A few moments later she reappeared carrying 


a large white cardboard box, tied with mauve 

" I couldn't wait to have it done up,'* she 
exclaimed, as she took her place beside Gabrielle 
and relieved her of the bouquet. " They are 
five-and-six," she said. "That's two-and-nine 
each, Gaby. They're all nutty ones." 

They continued their progress round the 
Market Square and again drew up, this time 
at the White Hart Hotel. 

They descended deliberately, for, now that 
they had come to the point, shyness had suddenly 
fallen upon them. Gabrielle condescendingly 
gave George into the custody of a young loafer, 
took the box of chocolates from Dulcie and 
together, with heightened colour, the pair 
entered the hall of the hotel. 

Gabrielle was their spokesman. 

" James," she said, in her very best voice 
and manner, to the head waiter, who came 
forward smiling, "I'm told that Miss Mona is 
staying here." 

" Yes, Miss Gabrielle," said the head waiter. 
who had known all the Preston Wayne family 
for forty years. " Yes. That's right." 

" Is she in ? " asked Dulcie. 

" Yes, Miss Dulcie, she's in," said 'James- 
James knew everybody. * 

" Well," said Gabrielle, " we want to see her, 
please, James." 

" Why, Miss Gabrielle," said James, doubt- 
fully. " Why, Miss Gabrielle, I don't exactly 

know as " He tailed off. He could not 

believe that the approval of the Squire of King's 
Woolley and the Vicar of Woolley St. Ninian's 
had been granted to this visit. 

" Oh, don't be an old stupid, James/* cried 
Gabrielle. " Go on, can't you ? I suppose 
she's up, isn't she ? " 

" Oh, yes, Miss Gabrielle. She's up, all right." 

" She's not ill ? " cried Dulcie. 

" Not as I knows of, Miss Dulcie." 

Gabrielle stamped her small foot at him. 
" Well, then," she snapped, " why don't you 
go and tell her ? Go at once, James." 

The habits of a life-time were too much for 
James. A child of the Ruling Order had given 
him an absolutely definite command. What- 
ever might be his reasons for hesitation, they 
had now ceased to have weight. 

" Very good, Miss Gabrielle," he said, obe- 
diently, and shuffled up the staircase in his 
over-large slippers. 

Gabrielle set her hat straight in the hall 
mirror. Dulcie improved the arrangement of 
the roses she carried. Neither spoke. The 
moment was too tremendous for words. 

James returned. As he passed the office 
he paused, as if to consult the young woman 
who sat inside it ; but Gabrielle was already 
at his side. 

" Well ? " she demanded. 

James shrugged his shoulders and turned to 
her. " Yes, Miss Gabrielle," he said. " You're 
to come along, please." 

" Hurrah ! " cried Gabrielle. " Lead on. 
James." She bounded up the stairs. " Come 
on, James," she :a.!?<xi from the first landing. 





Again James shrugged his shoulders* Accom- 
panied by Dulcie, he again dim lied the stairs. 
Flanked on either side by a little girl he moved 
down a passage and knocked on a door. 

A voice called, "Come in," James threw 
the door open and the two adventurers passed 
through, it, James, most improperly, followed 

They found themselves in the presence of 
a very small, very ugly, very old woman. She 
sat in an arm-chair by the window, smoking 
a cigarette. A small fire was burning in. the 
grate. The windows were all tight shut and, 
on I hat hot July day, the air of the room was 
abominable. On a table beside her were a bottle 
of gin, a glass jug of water, and a tumbler. 
The tumbler was half full. 

ri Well," said this horrible old woman. harshly, 
" and what do yew kids want ? " 

Gabriel] e would willingly have fled the room ; 
but the motto of the Preston Waynes is "Attain/' 
and their souls are not readily to be daunted. 
As for Dulcie, she was completely paralyzed. 
Therefore they stood their ground. 

" Well ? " cried the hag, again, " what is 
it ? What is it ? " 

" If you please/' said Gabrielle, civilly, 
" we want to see Man a. My father took us 
to the theatre last night, you know, and we 
thought her such a dear little girh We thought 

that perhaps she would like to come for a drive 
with Dulcie and me in my dog-cart, She looks 
so delicate, you know, and DulcR and I thought 
that it might do her good/* 

f * Yes/' faltered Dulcie, her tender heart 
lending her a moment's courage, " poor little 

41 My pony," Gabrielle went on, a trifle 
bitterly, " i H perfectly quiet. She needn't 
be a bit nervous of George, really. I hope 
you'll let her come, *We want her to come 
most awfully. I am Miss Preston Wayne 
and this is Miss Blonde!). We live in the country 
near here. Please let her come. We've got 
a box of chocolates for hcr/ J 

" They're all nutty ones/' said Dulcie, n And 
weVt brought these roses for her, too. Some 
of them are from Gaby's garden and some are 
from mine. Oh, please, do let her come/' 

'* I suppose/* said Gabrielle, " that you - re 
her grandmother, aren't you ? Please let her 
come. Do." 

" Waiter,' 1 cried the old woman to James, 
who had remained by the door, ++ what the 
deuce are you hanging about for ? Clear 

" Oh, no," cried Gabrielle. hastily. " Please 
let James stay. He's a great friend of ours. 
Please, we'd much rather James stayed. " 

The old woman laughed harshly. " Oh, you 




would, would you ? " she said. " Scared of me, 
eh ? Well, I don't wonder. I'm often scared 
of myself. All right. He can stay. What's a 
waiter, anyhow ? Just a suit of dirty blacks. 
A bit dirtier than other men's. That's all. 
Maybe he's a bit cleaner inside than most of 'em, 
poor devil. And so," she went on, as a very 
unpleasant smile came upon her wrinkled red 
and white face, " you want to take poor, dear 
little Mona out for an airing in your pretty 
black and red dog-cart behind your pretty white 
pony, do you ? I saw you drive up, and very 
nice you looked, but I never supposed as poor, 
dear little Mona was to be honoured by the 
attentions of such smart young women. And 
what do your lady mothers think of your coming 
here like this ? " 

" Well," said Gabrielle, " we didn't say any- 
thing about it to them. It was ail our own idea. 
I've driven George alone for quite a long time, 
and Dulcie always goes with me everywhere. 
It's quite safe for Mona ; it really is. We bought 
these chocolates for her with our own money, 
and the roses are out of our own private gardens. 
We didn't think it necessary to ask if we might 
come ? Why shouldn't we?" 

" I'm sure it'll do Mona good," said Dulcie. 
" Please, can't we see her ? " She advanced 
timidly and laid one small hand upon the old 
woman's arm. " Please." she said " We do 
so want to do something for her. She's such a 
darling, and we did enjoy seeing her act last 
night so much. And she'll be going away to- 
morrow, won't she ; and we may never see her 
here again." ' 

The old woman laughed more harshly than 

" That's pretty true," she said. " Poor little 
Mona ! She's not likely to last much longer, 
poor daring ! " 

" Oh," cried Dulcie, " is she so very ill, then ? 
We were afraid of that. What is it ? I hope 
it isn't consumption." 

The old woman eyed the gin bottle. " Some- 
thing of that sort," she said, with a snigger. 

*' Oh ! " cried Dulcie. " Poor little Mona ! " 
Her great eyes filled with tears and her lips 
began to tremble. " Then, mayn't she come 
with us ? " she asked. ^ Don't you think it 
would do her good ? " 

" Nothing can do her any good," said the ola 
woman, savagely. " She's done for, she is." 

" How terrible," said Dulcie. " Oh ! I'm so 
sorry for her. And for you, too, if you are her 
grandmother. If I was her grandmother, 1 
couldn't bear it if she should die." She took 
the old woman's hand in her own and squeezed it. 

Suddenly the old woman's face changed 
curiously. She put her arm round Dulcie s 
neck and pulled her, almost roughly, towards 
her. Then she kissed her on the cheek. 

" There, there," she said, " run away, the two 
of you. You're kind little souls. But Mona 
can't come out with you this afternoon. She's 
not fit for it." 

" But," cried Gabrielle, " she won't be able 
to act to-night, then." 

" Oh, yes." said the old woman. " She'll be 
able to act all right. She can always act. But 
afternoon drives with nice little girls aren't for 
her. She's got to rest, you see. She really 
can't go." 

" Well," said Dulcie, with a sigh, " you'll give 
her these flowers with our love, won't you ? " 

" And these chocolates," said Gabrielle. They 
laid their offerings on the old woman's knees. 

" We're so sorry," they said together. 

" You're not so sorry as I am," said the old 
woman. " You'd better show them out, waiter/ 
she added to James, " Show them out, 1 say 
you old fool" she shouted. 

James opened the door. His brow \va< 
beaded. He had passed through some terrible, 

" Good-bye," said Dulcie, holding up her face 
for another kiss. " Tell poor little Mona how 
sorry we are, won't you ? " 

Gabrielle shook hands. " Good-bye," she 
said. " Give her our love, won't you ? " 

The old woman took leave of them without 
speaking. Her face worked strangely. 

The two little girls went out of the room 
together. James prepared to follow them. 

" Waiter," the old woman hissed. 

James halted. " Yes'm," he said. 

" Don't you tell them," she whispered, 
venomously. " Don't you dare to tell them. 
If you tell them I'll have your life. See ? " 

" No fear, mum," said James, as he followed 
Gabrielle and Dulcie out of the room* 


C T)0 not forget thai The Strand Magazine may now be sent post free to British 
soldiers and sailors at home and abroad. All you need do is to hand your copies, 
without wrapper or address, over the counter at any post-office in the United Kingdom, 
and (hey will be sent by the authorities wherever they will be most welcome. 

by Google 

Original from 

The well-known French magazine, "Lectures pour Tous," recently offered 
a prize to the composer of the best March of Victory, The competition excited 
the greatest interest, and the March that won the prize was such a fine, 
stirring piece of work that we at once made arrangements to place it 
before our readers. The winner, M. Paul Legris, is Chef de Musique au 

I47e Regiment d'Infanterie. 

The March of Victory 



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by Google 

Original from 



by Google 

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' 2 45 



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Illustrated by G* E. Sturdy* 

NE day it was Johnny Peascod's 
birthday, and if £ gave you six 
guesses I am sure you would 
never guess what was the best 
present of all the presents 
he got* John ny himself did not 
know at breakfast that he had 
got this present, because it 
was so big that the postman could not carry 
it. Just before dinner Johnny saw a cart 
coming, but he did not think it con Id be anything 
for him, The cart stopped at the door of the 
house, but even then Johnny did not think 
it was a present for him, because all the parcels 
in the cart were great big boxes. The man 
who led the horse gave Jane a yellow paper 
and said, " Two-and- threepence to pay." 

And Jane said, "It is something for yon, 
Master Johnny." 

And Johnny said, " Where ? " 
But you could not tell what it was because 
it was in a big box. You can imagine how 
excited Johnny became. Then James, the gar- 
dener, cam© and helped the man, and they put 
the big box in the yard, and James and Johnny 
opened the box with the coal -hammer, and 
James was excited, but not so much excited as 
Johnny was. 

Have you guessed what Johnny's present 
was, now ( * 

It was a real bicycle, quite new, and ail for 
Johnny's very own, although ho was quite a 

little boy I James the gardener rang the bell 
and said, " It's a tidy little bike," and that will 
show you what a lovely bicycle it really was* 
Then Johnny asked J amines to teach him to ride, 
and Johnny learned in about ten minutes, though 
he tumbled off sometimes, but after dinner he 
could ride quite well, and he rode round to show 
Marytary, and you can imagine how surprised 
she was to see Johnny riding a bicycle of his 
very own. 

Then Marytary said : " Let me try, Johnny." 

So Johnny taught her, and before tea Mary- 
tary could ride too. 

Now the very next morning when Marytary 
was having breakfast Johnny came and tapped 
at the window, so that made Marytary rush 
out, and Johnny said, " Come on 1 Such a 
joke I " 

And Marytary said : " What ? n 

And Johnny said* "Get your hat and you'll 

So Marytary asked her mother if she might 
go out with Johnny, and she said, "Yes, dear, 
but finish your breakfast-" 

Marytary emptied her cup, packed her bread 
and butter into her mouth, and ran out with her 
hat to Johnny. She could not speak because 
her mouth was full, but Johnny knew what she 
wanted to say, and he said, " Look here, such 
a joke 1 We will go to the seaside on the bicycle," * 

" Both of us ? " said Marytary. 

" Yes/ 1 said Johnny; ** you sit behind, and 




'for miles round people began running and asking each other, 'what's up?* j 

I will work it, and when we come to a hill you 
ta.ii help to push me up, so we shall go quicker, 
and when it is down lull we can both get on and 
we shall go very fast. When I am tired, you 
can ride the bicycle.*' 

Wasn't it a lovely idea ! It made Marytary 
jump about for joy ; and then they ran and got 
the bicycle. There was a little shelf behind 
the saddle, called a " luggage carrier," and 
Marytary sat on it, and Johnny worked the 
bicycle, and off they went faster than you could 
run* When they came to a hill, Marytary 
slipped off and pushed, so that they went up 
quite quickly, and on the level roads they had 
it in turn to work the bicycle, and down hill 
they flew along without working at all. 

It wag a long way to the seaside place called 
Wanton where they were going, and after throe 
hours they came to a river, and it was very wide 
because it was near the sea, and there was no 
bridge j and Wanton was on the other side of 
the river, and there was no boat to truss over in. 

Just as they were wondering how to get 
across the river a man came by in a cart h and 
Johnny said/' Please, how are we to get across ? J * 
lor you see there was no boat and no bridge, 

And the man said, " Swim," and he did not 
stop but drove by, and it was rather rude of 

Then johnny said to Marytary, " All right, 
we will swim," for Johnny could swim and so 
could Marytary. 

But Marytary said, " Oh, johnny, you know 
we can't swim so far, and w T e can't swim with 
the bicycle, and we shall get our clothes all 

But Johnny knew what to do, and he was a 
clever little boy, I think. 


First he took the tyres off the bicycle* It 
was difn cult to do it, but Marytary helped him. 
Then they both took off their clothes and rolled 
them up into two bundles, like little pillows, 
and tied them round their necks. Then Johnny 
blew up the tyres with the bicycle -pump, acd 
put ono round Marytary, tight under h* r arms, 
and ont round himself ; and then they took hands 
and walked out into the river, And first it 
was sandy and shallow, and then it got deeper, 
and at last they began to swim, and the water 
was warm because the sun had been shining 
on it. Johnny said that the bicycle was quite 
safe because no one could ride it without any 
tyTes, and he was quite right. 

Marytary found she could swim quite easily, 
because the tyre was full of air, which made it 
very light and held her up so that she did not 
sink at all ; and even if she left oft swimming 
she floated like a cork, and johnny did too, 
and you would not believe what fun it was, 
Johnny laughed for joy and so did Marytary, 
and a big fish came and swam about near them ; 
and it was a codfish, and I think it had little 
children fish of its own, and that is why it liked 
Marytary and Johnny Peascod. It came and 
rubbed against their legs like a cat, but that 
naughty Johnny caught her by the tail at last, 
and opened his mouth and pretended he was 
going to eat her, and that frightened the poor 
fish, and when Johnny let her go she rushed 
away through the water and never came back 

Now while they were laughing and playing 
with the fish and splashing in the water, they 
had not noticed where they were going. The 
water began to be rough, and then they saw 
that the river vra,n running cut into the sea and 




was taking them along with it ; and that instead 
of getting near to the other side they were going 
right far out to sea. That was the reason it 
was getting rough, for there are nearly always 
big waves on the sea. Marytary tasted the 
water and it was quite salt, and that proved it 
was the sea, because the sea is always salt. 
That made Marytary feel frightened, but 
Johnny said, " It's all right, Marytary ; see ! 
there's a pier, and we will swim to it." 

Now* a long way off there was a very pretty 
pier, and they swam towards it side by side, 
and soon far away they could hear a band playing, 
and they could see people on the pier and other 
people paddling and bathing on the shore, 
and children too. 

By and by the band began to play out of 
time, and aU wrong ; and the drum did not 
come in the right place. And do you know why ? 

It was because the bandsmen had seen Johnny 
and Marytary swimming, and they were all 
looking at them instead of attending to their 

Now when Marytary and Johnny saw all 
the people staring at them over the side of 
the pier, it made them feel shy ; and the waves 
were dashing among the piles which go down 
into the water under the pier, and it was all 
dark under. the pier and the piles were covered 
with black seaweed and it did not look nice, so 
Johnny said, "We won't climb on to the pier; but 
we will go round and get on the beach instead." 
They swam until at last their feet touched the 
sand, and then they splashed along as fast as 
they could to the beach. But the bandsmen, 
and all the people, came Yunning off the pier 
to see who they were ; and people who did not 
know that Johnny and Marytary had come 
saw the bandsmen running on the pier, and ran 
to see why they were running ; and then other 
people saw these people running (though they 
could not see the bandsmen), and these other 
people ran to see what the people who were 
running to see what the bandsmen were running 
for were running for ; and other people seeing 
others run, ran too, and so for miles round people 
began running and asking each other, '" What's 
up ? What is it ? M and no one knew, and it 
makes me feel quite out of breath to tell you all 

While all the people were running, little 
Johnny and Marytary slipped behind a big 
boat and then got quickly into a bathing machine 
before anyone saw them do it. When the 
bandsmen came up they never thought of 
looking into the bathing machine, because, 
just at that moment, the bathing machine 
man fastened his horse on to the bathing 
machine and dragged it far up to the top of 
the beach. Then the people all ptood and 
stared, and asked the bandsmen. " Where are 
they ? " And the bandsmen shook their heads, 
because they did not know, and then went 
slowly back to the pier, looking behind them 
all the time to try and see Johnny and Mary- 
tary, and when they got back to the pier they 
played a very slow, sad tune. 

Now wasn't it lucky Marytary and Tr.hnny 

Diqilized by vjOOQIC 

got into the bathing machine ? There were 
dry towels in it, and a looking-glass and a brush 
and comb all ready, and a pail of water to 
wash the sand off their feet, so that very soon 
they were quite dressed and tidy. 

And now the most exciting part of this story 

There was a printed notice nailed up in the 
bathing machine, and it said, for Marytary read 
it, but John helped her : — 

The charge for using this bathing machine 
is sixpence each person, including children. 
By order of the Wanton Town Council. 

F. BINKS. Clerk. 

Now two sixpences — sixpence for Marytary 
and sixpence for Johnny — added together make 
a shilling, and a shilling is a lot of money. 
Marytary only had ninepence, and that is 
sixpence added to half a sixpence, but Johnny 
said, " It's all right, I've got three shillings," for 
it was what he had saved up from his birthday. 

So he put his hand into his pocket, and 
Marytary thought he had a pain, and she said, 
" What is the matter ? " 

And Johnny said, " I've lost il." 

The shillings fell out of his pocket when be 
was making his clothes into a bundle, of course ; 
and they were lying on the sand by the side 
of the river near the bicycle, and two birds 
were looking at them and wondering if they 
were nice to eat, for neither of theSe birds had 
ever seen shillings before. 

There was another notice nailed up in the 
bathing machine, and Johnny read it : — 

" On April is/, 191 3, John Beanpod was sent 
to prison for fourteen days for using this machine 
and avoiding payment. 1 ' 

Now what Johnny ought to have done, I 
think, was to go to the bathing machine man 
and say, " We are very sorry ; we have no* 
enough money ; but we will send it to you " ; 
and Marytary told him to say it, but Johnny 
replied : — 

" Perhaps John Beanpod did that, and his 
name is nearly like mine. We will send the 
bathing machine man the money, but he did 
not see us get in, and we can prevent him seeing 
us come out. We must spend your ninepence 
on buns because we are so hungry, aren't you ? " 

And Marytary was very hungry, so she said. 
" Yes." 

Then Johnny peeped out of one of the two 
doors, and saw the bathing machine man lying 
against a coil of rope fast asleep, and he had 
only one foot because he was a soldier and had 
been wounded, but that was a long time ago. 

So Johnny said, " He is asleep and he cannot 
run, so it's all right." 

Then Johnny opened the door at the other 
end of the bathing machine, and he and Mary- 
tarv slipped out. 

Now it would have been all right — for It 
was one o'clock and the people and all their 
children had i^f^\ ihQt^ *° dinner — but a horrid 




little boy who was going abwut the sands jumping 
*n all the beautiful castles that the children 
liad been making , saw Marytary and johnny 
corae out of the bathing machine and shouted, 
" Ijxik out, Joey I " 

Joey was the name of the bathing machine 
man, and he woke up and saw Johnny. And 
Johnny ran as fast as ho could, but Marytary 
hid behind the bathing machine, and Joey 
did not see her, Joey was very angry, and 
called to Johnny to make him stop, but johnny 
only ran faster and faster* So then Joey 
hopped along on his one leg to the bathing 
machine horse and got on its back, and started 
off after Johnny, 

Foot Johnny ran as hard as he could , and by 
tHe time Joey was on the horse's back he was 
a long way away ; but Johnny knew he would 
be caught, because a horse can go ever so 
much faster than a boy can run, and it made 
Marytary almost cry when she peeped from 
behind the bathing machine to see poor Johnny 

closer, and Joey shouting nearer and nearer, 
and I am really glad Marytary could not see 
them, for they were quite out of sight when 
she came back from the beach. 

Then Johnny turned up a side street, but 
sdmoat directly Puncher came round the comer 
alter him, and Johnny did not know what to 
do + In Jess than a minute, I am afraid, Johnny 
will be caught, and then what will Marytary 
do, f wonder ? 

Suddenly Johnny ran into a grocer's shop, 
and rushed round behind the counter, and 
crawled right under it out of sight, and I don't 
know what made him think of doing it, but it 
was clever of him. 

There was 110 one in the shop, but when he 
opened the door a bell rang, and that made the 

grocer come out of the 
tittle room at the back 
where he was having 
dinner with his three 
children and his wife. 
Now, when the grocer 
Came into the shop 
he did not see Johnny 


the grocer's coat with his teeth," under the counter* but 

just then Joey hopped 

running and looking behind him, and the great 
horse thumping after him, and then she ran 
after Johnny and the horse. 

Now this bathing machine horse, and his 
name was Puncher, could not go very fast, 
for his legs were all covered with wet seaweed 
which had grown on them because he stood 
nearly all day in the sea, and it made his legs 
heavy and he could not gallop properly- And 
there were limpets on his hoofs too, and a star 
fish had made a nest in his tail where it hung 
down in the water. All this weighed Puncher 
down and made him slow p but still he went much 
faster than Johnny, and as he thumped along 
the road the starfish fell out of his tail, so Mary- 
tary picked up the poor starfish and put it back 
in a nice pool among the rocks, and I think it 
has made a new nest and is quite happy again 
now. But poor Johnny was getting quite 
out of breath, and Puncher, corning closer and 


into the shop on one leg, and lie had seen 
Johnny run into the shop, and so Joey and the 
grocer began to talk, and it shows what dreadful 
things happen when people are not polite to one 

First the grocer said, " That's a nice way to 
come into my' shop ; what do you want ? " 
Because Johnny had made a lot of noise rushing 
in and the grocer thought it was Joey all the 

And Joey said, " I want that boy of yours. 
He has been bathing in my machine and run 
off without paying," because Joey had only 
seen Johnny's back, and when johnny ran 
into the shop he thought he was the grocer's 
own little boy t of course. 

" What do you mean ? " said the grocer. 

4i What I say,* 1 said joey. 

" My boy hasn't been bathing/* 

"Yes, hehfff '-j na | 




Take your hand off that 

"No, lie hasn't." 

" Yes, he has/' 

M No, he lias ractf 
ham/ J 

" I w:>n*t/' said Joey. 

You see Joey had to rest his hand on something 
because he had only one foot to stand on, and 
he had put his hand on a large ham that was 
on the counter. 

So the grocer snatched the ham away, and 
that made Joey fall down and ho knocked over 
a pile of tirm and jam -puts, and one pot broke 
and the jam got into his hair, and it made the 
grocer angry, and he went and dragged Joey 
out into the street ; but Joey held on to his 
lt£ and would not let him go back into the 
shop, atid then that dear old Puncher tried 
to help his master, and took hold of the grocer's 
coat with his teeth and tore it right up, and 
people came running to see what was the matter, 
and then a policeman came, walking very fast 
and taking off hi 3 gloves as he came, and 
when a policeman does that it means it is very 

The policeman did not ask any questions, 
but put Joey up on Puncher, and led Puncher 
with one hand while he held the grocer wit h 
the other, and he took them away to prison. 

Juat then the grocer *s wife ran out and said, 
" You mustn't take him yet, he hasn't finished 
his dinner/' 

The policeman stopped and thought a lon^ 
time. Then he said, " You mu^t bring his 
dinner after him ; he must finish it 

So the grocer's wife took the pie they 
bad been enjoying, and the three children 
followed with the pudding and the plates, 
and they all went down the street alter 
Puncher and the policeman, but the littlest 
child was so small it could only carry the 
mustard-pot, and its name was Ben, so 1 
know it was a little boy, though he was so 
small he wore frocks like a littJe girl. 

Then that naughty little Johnny crawled 
out and peeped over the top of the counter, 
and the shop was empty, so he came quite 
out, and looked up and down the street to 
see if Marytary was there. But no ! there 
was no ^larytary. And then he looked 
again, and saw Marytary staring all about 
and wondering where Johnny was. So 
Johnny ran and fetched her and they b^th 
went into the grocer's shop together, and 
Johnny told her al! about the grocer going to 
prison, and said, " Now J will be the grocer. 
and you miiat be a real lady come to buy a Jot 
of things/' 

Then he peeped into the drawers where the 
grocer kept the sugar and tea and coffee, and 
then he put on the grocer's apron and took off 
his coat and turned up his shirt -sleeves, and 
stood on a box behind the counter bo that 
when you came into the shop you would think 
Johnny was a real grown-up grocer man. And 
Marytary sat in a chair and Johnny was a 
grocer, and Marytary said :— 

" How much do you charge for jam to-day ? '* 

Digitized by LiOOglC 

But just then a woman and a little girl came 

into the shop, so Johnny said to ihem : — 

i( What's the next article, please ? " and it 

was such fun you simply wouldn't believe, 
" A pound of moist," said the woman- 
No w Johnny did not know what she meant, 

ad he said, " I am very sorry, but we only keep 

the wet and the dry." 

" Sugar/' said the woman, 

"Thank you/' said johnny; "what price, 


"Twopence halfpenny," said the woman., for 

this was in the days before the war. 

So Johnny found a drawer marked ,l sugar" 

and it was nearly full of brown sugar, and Johnny 

weighed out a pound, and when he had weighed 

it he put it into a blue paper bag, and then he 

said, " There is a little over," and he put some 

more sugar into the bag, and the woman was 

pleased and smiled. 

Then she gave Johnny twopence halfpenny, 

and he put it into a drawer where there waa 

other money, and then he gave the little girl 

an apple and a gingerbread nut, and that made 

the woman very pleased, and the little girl was 

pleased too, 

and the woman 

said. '"Say 

thank you, 

Sarah/* and 

the little girl 

said, " Thank 

you/* and they 

went out. 

After that two more 
women came in and one 
bought tea and the 
other bought coffee, and 
J oh mi y said to each, M There is a little over," 
and put some more into the bag, and the w + omeii 
were pleased. 

After that no one came into the shop for a 
long time, and Johnny ate biscuits with sugar 
on them, and so did Marytary. and they were 
in the shape of animals, and Johnny ate two 
lions, two bears, a cow, and a big bird. But 
Marytary only ate horses. 

just then the grocer and his wife and little 
Ben and the two other children came back 
with the dinner plates, alt quite happy, because 
the magistrate had said, " It is all a mistake; 
Shake hands and make friends/* 

So the grocer and Joey shook hands ; and 
JiH-y s.ud. "H you want to bathe any day, 




why I come down to the beach, and you can 
have a machine for nothing." 

And the grocer said* " It you should ever 
fancy a nice bit of cheese, just come 
to my shop and 111 give you the best 
you ever tasted." 

So that was all right ; but you can 
imagine how surprised the grocer was 
when he came into his shop to see 
another grown-up grucer standing 
behind the counter, for Johnny was 
standing on a box to make himself tall, 
but the grocer^ 
did not know. 

Then the 
grocer said, 
9t Halloa r " 

And that 
cheeky little 
Johnny re- 
plied, "What's 
the next 

article ? " and that 
made the grocer laugh 
very much, because it 
was his own shop, 
and, of course, a 
grocer never buys things at his own shop. 

Then Johnny came out from behind the 
counter, and you can't think how surprised 
the grocer was to see he was only a little boy 
all the time. 

Then Johnny told them all about it, and they 
did not mind a bit when Johnny said he and 
Marytary had eaten the biscuits because they 
telt hungry. 

And the grocer's wife said, ** Well, I nevor/ J 
biit the grocer looked serious, and made Johnny 
show him the drawers he had got the sugar and 
tea and coffee out of, for he was afraid Johnny 
had given the women salt instead of sugar, 
and curry-powder instead of coffee : but it 
was all quite right, because it was written on 
the drawers and Johnny could read by himself 
quite well, and it shows how lucky it was he 
had learned to read. 

Just then four women came into the shop 
very quickly, with all their children, and before 
the grocer had got on his apron and was ready 
to serve them, more women and their children 






came in ; the shop had never been so full 
before } and more wemen and children were 
waiting outside, and it made the grocer very 
happy, but he wondered why it was, and 
Johnny did not know, but 1 have guessed 
why they ail came and 1 expect you have 
guessed too. 

They all wanted sugar and tea and coffee* 
and I think the reason was that the woman 
to whom Johnny had sold sugar told all her 
friends : — 

" Oh p you ought to go to that shop, they give 
you a little over, and Sarah had an apple and a 
ginger biscuit as well/' 

And the women who had bought tea and 
coffee said the same, and friends of these women 
told other women, and so the women crowded 
there to buy sugar and tea and coffee, and the 
grocer made a lot of money and was able to buy 
a nice fat dog to take out for walks on Sunday* 
The grocer did not give them a little over aa 
Johnny had done, because he did not know 
Johnny had done it, and th£ women could not 
ask because it would have been rude, but they 
went on going to the shop always hoping that 
they would get a "little over/* and an apple 
and a ginger biscuit for their children. 

Then Johnny said good-bye to the grocer 
and his wife and so did Marytary. and if you 
want to know what happened after that pf rhaps 
I will tell you some dlay, and perhaps I will 



IT is an interesting little puzzle to arrange a given 
number of different letters in a circle so that as many 
words as possible may be read in either direction. 

As the ten letters are 
arranged in the illus- 
tration, only five words 
can be obtained, A, I, O, 
IS and SI (the seventh 
note in the musical 
scale). Can you rear- 
range these same ten 
letters so as to get 
more than twenty-five 
good words ? All that 
is necessary is to ex- 
change two pairs of 
letters ; that is, to 
change the positions of four letters. 

Here is a much simpler version of Loyd's "|How 
old was Mary?" puzzle that the reader may find 
entertaining. John is twice as old as Jane was when 
John was as old as Jane is now. When Jane is as 
old as John is now, their combined ages will be sixty- 
three. How old is John ? 

I GAVE in November last (No. 430) my answer to 
the old enigma beginning, "A headless man had a 
letter to write," and several correspondents have 
written to say that they were many years ago acquainted 
with the same solution, which was generally admitted 
at the time to be correct. I now give the reader 
another of these " unsolved " enigmas, but in this 
case I cannot promise him any answer. I have known 
it for a long time, but have never hit on a satisfactory 
solution. & an acceptable answer is sent to me I 
shall be glad to publish it, but it cannot appear for 
several months after its receipt. 

Men cannot live without my first, 

By day and night 'tis used. 
My second is by all accursed 

And day and night abused. 
My whoU is never seen by day 

And never felt by night : 
Tis dear to friends when far away, 
And hateful when in sight. 

Professor Rackbrain left his typist what he 
called a trifle of a legacy if she was able to claim it. 
The legacy was the largest amount that she could 
find in an addition sum, where pounds, shillings, 
and pence were all represented and no digit used 
more than once. Every digit must be used once, 
a single nought may or may not appear, as in the 
examples below, and the dash may be employed in 
the manner shown. 

iVi £'•"■ 

— 4 8 425 

- 5 9 6 7 ^ 

1 6 — 1 1 

£10 9 8 

f 2 - 

^The young lady was cleverer than he thought. 
What was the largest amount that she could claim t 

Solutions to Last Months Puzzle*. 

442.— THE FOUR 


First place the four 
pennies together as in 
the first diagram; then 
remove No. 1 to the 
new position shown in 
the second diagram • 

and finally care- 
fully withdraw 
No. 4 downwards 
and replace it 
above against 

Nos. 2 and 3. 


Then they will be 
in the position 
shown in the 
third diagram, 
and the fifth 
penny may be 
added so that it 
will exactly touch 
all four. A glance 
at the last dia- 
gram will show 
how difficult it is to judge by the eye alone the cor- 
rect distance from No. 1 to No. 3. One is almost 
certain on first trial to place them too near together. 

Atkins takes Clarke 40 miles in his car and leaves 
him to walk the remaining 12 miles. He then rides 
back and picks up Baldwin at a point 16 miles from 
the start and takes him to their destination. All 
three arrive in exactly 5 hours. Or Atkins might 
take Baldwin 36 miles and return for Clarke, who will 
have walked his 12 miles. The side-car goes 100 
miles in all, with no passenger for 24 miles. 


If you draw fifteen lines 
in the manner shown in 
the diagram, you will have 
formed exactly one hundred 
squares. There are forty 
with sides of the length 
A B, twenty-eight of the 
length A C, eighteen of the 
length A D f ten of the length 
A E, and four squares with 
sides of the length A F, 
making one hundred in all. 
It is possible with fifteen 
straight lines to form 11a 
squares, but we were 
restricted to 100. With fourteen straight lines yoQ 
cannot form more than ninety-one squares. 

. -445.-1A CHARADE. 


B C 1> t F 



If one happens to remember the slip of the printer 
who, during a previous war, managed to drop the 
initial " s " from the last word of a sentence, and made 
it read, " the enemy were defeated anrd great 
laughter," one soon hits on the olue. Every word in 
the message has lost its initial letter. If we supply 
these it reads : ** Show /his fold Prussian /hat /raises 
daughter, daughter kings rout. 7each /his daughter 
fever fas /all nears." It will be noted that every 
word when beheaded forms another word, and that 
both ways of reading make sense. 

Solutions to last month s 
Bridge Problems. 


Z leads the club and Y leads the heart, giving A 

two tricks in that suit. On the second round of 

hearts Y discards the small diamond and B a small 

spade. A now leads a small diamond, which B wins, 

1.— By R, C Mankowskl 

Hearts — 5. 
Clubs— Queen. 
Diamonds— Knave, io, 3. 
Spades — to, 6, 2. 

Hearts — King, knave. 


Diamonds — Ace, 8, 7, 

Spades— None. 

Hearts— 4. 
Clubs— 6. 

Diamonds — Queen. 
Spades — Ace, queen, 
8, 4» > 

Hearts— Queen, 8. 
Clubs— 9. 
Diamonds— None. 
Spades— King, knave, 9, 7, 5. 
No trumps. Z to lead. Y and Z to win four. 

and upon which Z discards the seven of spades. No 
matter what spade B leads, Y and Z must make 
three tricks in that suit. 

If B leads the four of spades, Y wins with the six 
and comes back with the ten. If B leads the eight 
instead of the four, Z puts on the nine, and Y over- 
takes it Vith the ten, coming back with the six, so 
that if B ducks with the four, Z shall be able to duck 
in turn with the five. 

If A leads the ace of diamonds instead of the small 
one at the fourth trick, and then puts Y in with the 
jack, B and Z discard small spades. Y leads the 
spade ten, and either holds the trick or enables Z to 
make two spade tricks if B covers. 

The heart opening will not solve, as A can lead a 
small diamond after making two hearts, and B will 
lead the club. If Y has discarded a diamond he must 
lead spades, and no matter what spade he leads, B 
will make two tricks by covering it. 


A and B have four kings guarded against four aces, 
yet they lose three of them, in spite of any defence 
they can make. 

Z leads the ace of clubs, the object being to ascertain 
at once whether A is going to give up the king or not. 
If he does, two rounds of hearts follow, putting B 

into the lead, while Z discards the queen of diamonds. 
Whatever B leads next, there are five tricks in sight 
for Y and Z. 

2.— Bv Frank S. Bussbr. 

Hearts— Ace, 9, 3. 
Clubs— io, 4. 3. 
Diamonds — None, 
Spades— Ace, 10. 

Hearts— None. 
Clubs— King, 7. 
Diamonds — King, 

knave, 9, 8, 5. 
Spades — 9. 

Hearts— King, 6. 
Clubs— 9, 6, 5. 
Dia monds — None. 
Spades — King, knave, 

No trumps. 

Hearts — 7. 
Clubs— Ace, 8, a. 
Diamonds— Ace, queen. 
Spades— Queen, 3. 
Z to lead. Y and Z to win seven. 

If A keeps the king of clubs, Z leads a spade whith 

Y wins and then puts A in. A must lead diamonds, 
and B must make two discards, which are fatal, as 

Y gets rid of the club ten. 

As the solution hinges on these discards, it looks as 
if the p|ay were to make A lead diamonds, and that 
it does not matter whether Z starts with the ace of 
clubs or a spade. This is the trap, baited with the 
tenace in diamonds. If Z leads the spade for the 
first trick, Y must return the club, but A gets rid of 
the king and makes it impossible to force him to lead 
the diamonds. Now B must make three tricks. 


Z leads the eight of clubs. This forces an immediate 

discard from A. If he lets go the small spade, Y 

also discards a spade. If B comes back with a spade, 

A wins and leads a heart. This Z wins and leadLs the 

3.— Bv Jay Ref.d. 

Hearts— 6, 2. 
Clubs — None. 
Diamonds— Ace, 8, 2. 
Spades — King, queen. 

Hearts— o, 4. 
Clubs— None, 
Diamonds — King, 7, 4. 
Spades— Ace, 8. 


Hearts — None. 
Clubs— Knave. 
Diamonds — Queen, 

o, 6, s. 
Spades — 4, 2, 

Hearts— Knave, 
Clubs— 8. 

Diamonds— Knave, 10, 3. 
Spades — 6, 3. 
No trumps. Z to lead. Y and Z to win four. 

winning spade, upon which A is forced to shed a 
diamond, or Y will make a heart trick. This allows 
Y to discard his heart, and when Z leads a high diamond 
it settles matters. 

If A leads a small diamond for the third trick, Y 
must allow the queen to win, and the rest is obvious. 

If B leads the queen of diamonds for the second 
trick, Y lets it hold, or A may establish a heart trick. 
If B leads a small diamond instead of the queen, and 
A puts on the king, or if after winning B's return of 
the spade A should lead the king of diamonds, Y 
must put on the ace. 

Note that :If Y discards a diamond instead of the 
spade q-jcen oti the Sret trick, B leads the queen of 



diamonds, which must establish the king for A. If 
Y holds off and then leads a heart, A wins the rest. 
To prevent his leading a spade, B will lead a spade 
(if the diamond queen holds), and A leads a heart 
and makes a heart trick later. 

If A discs rds a heart on the first trick, Y sheds a 
diamond, and no matter what diamond B leads, Y 
wins with the ace and leads a spade. A spade lead 
from B makes it easy for Y and Z. 

If A discards a diamond on the first trick, Y must 
let go a heart, and lets the diamond queen hold, if 
B leads it. If B does not lead the diamond, but a 
spade, Y passes up a diamond return from A. If 
A returns the spade, Y puts Z in with a heart to lead 
the jack of diamonds. If ' A and Y both discard 
diamonds on the first trick, two spade leads, or a 
spade and a heart, defeat the solution. 

The false opening is the jack of diamonds. This is 
allowed to go to B's queen. * He. leads the club and 
A discards a heart. What is Y to do ? If he discards 
a diamond, a diamond lead from B settles matters. 
If a heart, B leads a spade, and B will make the nine 
of diamonds later. 

Z leads the diamond and B discards a reart. (If 
he discards a spade, the rest is obvious. If a club, 

Y and Ztnake three clubs.) If A returns the diamond, 

Y discards a spade. If B discards the second heart, 

4.— By Frank S. Busskr. 

Hearts — Ace, 4. 
Clubs — Knave, 7, 6, 
Diamonds — 4. 
Spades — 3. 

Hearts— 6, x 
Clubs — 10, 9, 4. 
Diamonds— Ace, 7. 
Spades — None. 



Hearts— King, 5. 
Clubs— King, 8, 5. 
Diamonds — None. 
Spades—King, 8. 

Hearts — 3. 

Clubs— Ace, queen, 3. 
Diamonds — 8» 
Spades — Ace, 7. 
No trumps. Z to lead. Y and Z to win five. 

Z keeps that 6uit. Whatever A leads next, Y makes 
two hearts, and Z makes two clubs and a spade. If 
B discards a club on the return of the diamond by A, 
Z discards spade seven. If B discards a spade, 
Z discards a club. 

If A leads the heart instead of the diamond, Y wins 
and leads the spade, which Z wins and returns, forcing 
B into the lead. On this trick Y discards a heart 
and B loses three tricks in clubs. 

If A leads a high club instead of the diamond, 
Y plays small, Z wins (whatever B plays) and leads 
the heart. Y wins and leads a spade, and B is forced 
to win a spade trick and lead the clubs. 


Z leads ace and small spade. A must trump with 
the queen, and Y must under-trump with the ten. 
If A does not trump with the queen. Y and Z make 
their three tricks at once by trumping a heart trick 
atter Y trumps the spade. 

If A leads a heart, Z trumps and leads jack ot 
diamonds. If A wins it, he must give Z a diamond 
trick later. 

If A leads the club at the third trick, B discards 

a spade, Z wins and leads the diamond jack* end n.ust 
make a diamond or a spade, according to the winner 
of the first heart lead. 

5. — By R. C. Mankowski. 

Hearts— 8, 7, 6, 5? 
Clubs — 10. 
Diamonds— 6, 5. 
Spades— Knave. 

Hearts— Ace, 10. 
Clubs— Queen. 4. 
Diamonds— King, 

queen, 8. 
Spades — 7. 

Hearts — Queen. 
Clubs — Non^. 
Diamonds — 10. 
Spades- King, 10, o^ 
8. 6, 5-" 

Hearts— Ifbne. 
Clubs— 6. 

Diamonds — Knave, 9, 4. 
Spades — Ace, queen, 4, > 
Clubs trumps. Z- to lead. Y and Z to win three. 

If A leads the ten of hearts for the third trick, 
Z trumps it and makes a diamond later by leading 
the jack. 

The trap lies in the second trick. If Y discards 
instead of under-trumping, A makes his two winning 
diamonds immediately, -and then leads the losing 
trump, B discarding spades. Now Y must lead the 
; 1 earts, and A either allows the qu^en to hold or 
bvertal'.es it, according to Z's previous discards. 


Z leads a spade. If A wins with ace, Y discards a 
small club and B a diamond. If A returns the spade, 
Y and B both discard diamonds, and Z makes two 
diamond tricks, Y discarding clubs. Now B must 
unguard hearts or clubs. 

If A returns the spade and B di cards a heart, 

&— By Frank S. Busser. 

Hearts— Ace, king, 3. 
Clubs — 10, 7, 4, 2. 
Diamonds --4. 
Spades— None. 

Hearts— None. 
Clubs — 9, 8, 6, 5. 
Diamonds— Queen. 
Spades— Ace, 4, 3. 



Hearts— Queen, 

knave, o. 

Clubs — King, queen. 

Diamonds— King, 8, 


Spades— None. 

No trumps. 

Hearts— 3. 

Clubs— Ace, knave, 3. 
Diamonds— Ace, 5. 
Spades— €, 5. 
Z to lead. Y and Z to win seven. 

Z leads hearts, and Y makes three tricks in that suit 
at onre, Z discarding the small club. Again B must 
unpuard a suit. 

If A returns the club instead of the spade, Z wins 
and makes his spade trick, Y discarding a dob. B is 
in the same difficulty. 

If A returns the diamond, Z wins and leads the 
good spade, Y discarding a club. Whichever suit B 
discards, Z leads next. 

Should A refuse to win the first trick, Y discards a 
club and B a diamond. Z now leads the ace and three 
of clubs, and Y keeps the club ten. If B now leads ft 
heart, Z discards the club jack. If B leads a diamond 
instead of the h^.rr, Z plays oce and leads the dub 

jack ' an MraW6t MICHIGAN 


PRING FICx ^. , 



j re Breakfast 


*he most 





When buying toilet pre- 
parations ma^e sure 
they are British* All 
the Vinolia articles are 
of British manufacture 
and are the best of 
their ^tntl. 


Celtic, Roman, Notse, Danish^ Norman — all have had their share* 
no lets than climate, in contributing to that fresh loveliness for 
which Britain l daughters are envied by the fair of other nations. 

WE know with certainty that amongst our Celtic 
forebears good teeth were practically universal. 
This was largely due to the heallhy, open-air life which 
the Celts lived, and to their wholesome and simple food. 

Under modern conditions of civilization the teeth require far 
more attention and care than was necessary in those day* ; 
but by the regular use, night and morning, of Royal Vinolia 
Tooth Paste, the teeth can be kept in a condition which rivals 
that of the teeth of our Celtic ancestors. 

In Tubes, T^d, & 1/3 each. 

Far those who fire fer the powder form. Royal Vinolia Tooth Powder 

equally satisfactory* 

6A & l/« 

f Vinoua C? L T P London. Paris 

room paste 

nginal from 


Contents for April, 1919. 

The rights of translation and reproduction in the contents of this number are strictly reserved. 



A Literary Mystery Solved. 















h. de vere stacpoole - 
anna katharine green 
'... Barry Pain ... 

... d. h. lawrence 

„ ... by themselves 

"... holworthy hall 


... Keble Howard 

• •• ••• ••» ••• •»• •»• 

.-. R. F. FOSTER 







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by dC 



1 1 I >.1 1 I I ■_' I 1 1 




(Set page 257.) 



Original from 


Vol 57. 

APRIL, 1919, 

No. 340. 




ITH the stealthy step of a cat. 
Beddows came up the wide 
avenue" of clipped hollies, ^ his 
feet making as much k sound on 
the smooth turf as the wind 
among its minute grass-stems. 
Once in the splash of shadow 
flung by the gables and . chimneys he halted, 
sending a strained gaze backward in search of 
a possible pursuer. 

But he- only saw the grey-green sea of moon- 
light on the gfass which was already just touched 
by the hoar-frost; and the* tapering spire' of 
the Scotch fir at the end of the avenue, .with 
its flattened crown of leaves, its needles, set 
aslant -right up under the processional clouds. 

Half-a-dozen more yards brought him to as 
many steps neatly cut in a slope which extended 
this side of "the house. The double glass doors 
of a French window were at the top of the steps. 
For five minutes he was busy with V diamond- 
cutter and a treacle-pad. He put a hand through 
the orifice thus formed and cautiously drew 
aside one of the chenille curtains. 

He saw first a round table with claw feet, 
a table of black oak, so polished that the three 
lighted candle-holders upon it cast points of 
light as if into a dark pool. There were also 
an open book upon this table, a cut - glass 
tumbler, a decanter with a long neck, and a 
box of cigarettes. Beside it was a capacious 
arm-chair, with cushions in the se^t-angles. 
A wood-fire chuckled and spluttered sociably. 
The interior of the room was altogether very 
cosy and inviting, and Beddows did not hesitate 
to enter. 

He looked round with the penetrating, the 
all-embracing eyes of the cracksman of experi- 
ence. It was a no uncertain expression which 
made taut every line of his face. Known to 
his associates as " The Killer," he looked the 
part, that fatal rdle, as he glided forward with 
. his tread of a panther. 

Just what he wan ted. was in a cabinet in 
a corner. He knew perfectly well that it was in 
there, for he was no chance, no snatch thief. When 
a little jade-clock on the mantelpiece chimed the 
half-hour after midnight he darted a yellow 
flash of his eyes at the interrupter, then went 
VoL IviL— 18. Copyright, 1919, 

by L^t) c 

straight on. He reached the cabinet. Three 
minutes were between him and attainment. 

Suddenly a calm voice demanded : M What 
the devil is your little game ? " 

Beddows spun round as if touched by a hot 
iron. A man was standing by the table, a man 
in evening dress. He was brave, this feflow, 
for he kept his hands in his trousers pockets, 
and his frown showed only keen exasperation. 
Beddows realized this in the moment allowed 
him. A leap, and his .fingers were round one 
of the brastf candlesticks. The other recoiled 
hastily, collided with the armchair, and lost 
his balance. Beddows struck home with his 
heavy weapon, struck with the most brutal force. 
The man fell across the arms of the chair as 
if a rifle bullet had put out his life. 

Beddows glared down at the inert form, the 
candle-holder clutched in. his hand as if for a 
second blow. His underrjaw stuck out menac- 
ingly ; a phosphor light played over his eyes ; 
he breathed stertorously. He recovered himself 
quickly, forced his iron nerve to hold good. 
Deliberately he relighted the candle in the holder 
and replaced it on the table. He poured out 
the brandy in the decanter and tossed it off. 

He leaned over the still figure, which had been 
struck on the back of the head. He lifted it 
and seated it in the chair, propping it, naturally, 
with the cushions. He felt the heart, put his 
cheek to theiips. 

" All right/'* ran his desperate thought. 
" Hell come round in an hour." 

Then he straightened himself, and was already 
looking again towards the cabinet when he 
fancied he heard a slight sound. Six steps 
wbuld have taken him to the glass doors ; four 
to the open door by which had entered the 
spoiler of his sport. The occasion seemed urgent, 
and Beddows chose the four steps. 

He was in a large, square-shaped hall, with 
thick rugs on its waxed floor. He glided to 
the side of a deep-embrasured window, in 
a semi -dark, and waited for developments. 
He had practically closed the door of the room 
he had just quitted, shutting out the light, 
but a pale drift of moon-sheen poured through 
the leaded panes of the window, which gave a 
view of the holly avenue by which Beddows 
by L. J. Beeston* 




had approached. His quick-roaming eyes showed 
him three doors in this hall ; one he had just 
made use of. another obviously led to the out- 
side night, and the third to another room on 
his left. Opposite the window was a broad, 
very shallow staircase. The hall wag . cosily 
furnished with settees and lounge chairs, with 
coloured prints and etchings on its walls. 

The intruder took instantaneous note of these 
details wJiile he considered his way of escape 
in case of a second interruption. He had not 
long to wait. 

A creaking stair drew his heated gaze across 
the hail. A girl was corning down the oaken, 
uncarpeted staircase. She paused to lean over 
the banister to look intently at the door of 
the room which Beddows had so hastily left. 
She had loosened her hair, so that her posture 
brought her long tresses, black as the raven's 
wing, either side of her face, which, perhaps 
because it was framed in that ebon cloud, 
seemed deathly pale. 

Beddows flattened himself against the wall, 
cursing his continued nui of ill-luck. At the 
same time he was held by the movements of the 
woman on the stairs, who took each step with 
infinite caution, and kept stopping to look over 
the handrail at the door below, which alone 
seemed to have gripped her attention or aroused 
her suspicions. 

As she descended Beddows saw her eyes 
shine, heard her quick, nervous breathing, 
Clearly she had been disturbed by the sound 
of the scuffle, and he wondered why she came 
alone to probe the cause of it. 

He congratulated himself on having placed 
the unconscious man in a natural j Nation in 
the arm-chair. He reflected : " Sht will 
in there, and while she is 
trying to rouse the fellow 
1 can get out by this 
window or the door. But 
it is the devil's worst luck 
for me," 

The woman reached the 
bottom of the winding 
staircase, her eyes never, 
for a fraction of a moment, 
leaving the door of the 
room, Bcdduws saw that 
she was dark as night, 
and strikingly handsome. 
Site had Loosened her dress 
of pale green Milk, and he 
saw the shapelv throat 
agitated as if by an in- 
cessant swallowing move- 
ment. She was very much 

And she has need to 
be/' ran the mans des- 
perate thought u If she sets those staring 
eyes on me I'll have to strangle any scream 
before she makes it " 

The big dose of neat brandy he had poured 
down his throat had dim bed to his head, and he 
crouched in the deep shadow like a wild beast 

Digitized by Google 

The woman commenced to cross the hall as 
If its boards were some mine of death. She 
put up her hands on which gleamed many 
jewels, and pushed back the wealth of her 
black hair. Beddows noticed the flash from 
her fingers, and it inclined him to think twice 
before making his escape* She carried a for- 
tune, likely enough, upon her delicate hands, 
and he did not see why he should let it slip 
him. Fur half a minute he meditated a sudden 
leap forward, but belore he could quite make 
up his mind the other had reached the door 
of the inner room. She pushed it inwards a 

She called out. in little more than a whisper, 
in a whisper of heart -stopping fear: H Are you 
there, Edmund ? " 

Receiving no answer, she pushed the door 
open farther and went in. 

Beddows stepped out from the shadow. In 
nine crises out of ten he could make up his 
mind in a flash of time. But this was the 
tenth. He had never been placed in a similar 
situation ; also, the brandy did not assist 
lightning decision* At any moment the woman 
in there would discover that a crime had been 
committed and rush out with a shriek. Should 


> 4 

he bolt for it ? Should he wait ? Should lie 
dart in after her and silence her ? 

As these questions flamed through hia uncer- 
tain and somewhat clouded brain, the woman 
reappeared. Her lij*j were parted with terror; 
her eyes dilate^ ftjfftJJrfflQtfti Beddows advanced 



3 59 

in a rush, but suddenly he pulled himself up 
with, a jerk, He had seen some tiling gleam in 
the other a clenched right hand* It might be 
a pistol, it might be a steel blade ; he was ttot 
quite sure, but it checked him. for an mstant, 
and before that instant passed the woman had 
seen him as he stood in the broad shaft of moon- 
light, and she put her hand down by her side 
so that her dress partly covered and concealed it. 

4i I won't hurt you, not unless you start scream- 
ing, and then I'll be as rough as I know how/' 
She panted : " What are you doing here ? " 
,H That's silly talk. I'm not here on a woek- 
end invite. Now, what have you got in that 
other hand ? Put it down E I won't stand 
any fooling." 

She broke away from him suddenly, putting 
her right hand behind her, 


The action was involuntary. The abrupt 
apparition of the man before her imparted such 
a palsying shock that her wits "were numbed. 
She fought for breath. The inward, bizarre 
light of fear blazed in her dilated pupils, Death 
seemed in her cheeks an lips. A pulso in her 
beautiful threat beat wildly, and her disengaged 
hand pressed upon her heart as if to relieve 
an ag*ny there, Bcddows caught the wrist 
in a Strang jjrasp. He perceived at once that 
this extreme of terror made him sure master 
of the situation. 

" Best keep quiet/' he purred, menacingly. 

" Give it to me, my beauty/' insisted Bcddows, 

The flare in her starting eyes had died down 
a little ; a little was she now mistress of 

" Take what you want/ 1 she replied, breath- 
lessly- " And go. I will not stop you." 

Beddows considered* Violence would pro- 
bably frustrate his aim. He resolved to work 
without it, but to watch her with the utmost 
vigilance. He moved to close the door of the 
room which she had just left. 

"Ah, i3tk|there 1 '.' she exclaimed ¥ wildly* 




and for the first time he noticed that she spoke 
with a strong foreign accent* 

lied dows closed the door. lie was abruptly 
puzzled by that entreaty* What did she mean ? 
His first conclusion was that she believed the 
inmate of the room to be slumbering in the easy 
chair, and that she wished to protect him ; 
but lie was forced to let go of that explanation, 
remembering her excess of terror when she had 
emerged a minute ago. It was rather baffling, 
but clearly she did not suspect him of the assault, 
and he let it go at that, for the moment. 

White he was closing the door she had drawn 

not threatened violence, yet her agitation was 
increasing to a point wliich suggested collapse. 
Never had he seen a face so altogether bloodless, 
and eyes which held a nightmare of terror. 

Regarding her with a nerce and puzzled 
frown he put the jewels back on the settee as 

! I. 

i ■" ", ■ - ' t- 

"f if r 



the rings from her fingers. She put them— a 
tiny glittering pile — upon the back of a settee, 

" Will that satisfy you ? ** she asked, shrinking 
back at his approach, " If so P take them and 
leave here at once —immediately — be lore you 
are prevented." 

Beddows picked up the jewels, weighing them 
In his pa J in. He scarcely looked at them, all 
bis attention focused on the woman* She 
mystified, aim fist troubled him. It was cer- 
tainly natural that she should want him away, 
but eagerness, more than anxiety, appeared to 
prompt her beseeching ; and although He had 

by Google 

if they hinted at some trap. He growled: 
f ' We will see about that. Suppose we get 
this door open first ? " 

Jt was the one leading to the holly avenue. 
He turned a key and drew a bolt. The inrush 
of chill air felt good and gave him back his 
determination to get what he had come for. 

" No. I want more than that/ J said he, grimly, 
"There's a cabinet in that room, and in it 
there's a box o! unset stones/" 

She shook her head wildly. " No I no I " 
she forced her dry lips to answer. 

" I say there is I Will you fetch it ? You'll 

J Original norm 



have to. I'm not fool enough to trust yon here 
alone. Get it, I say, or " 

Suddenly an expression which he could not 
translate passed over the other's face, driving 
from it the former paralysis of fear. 

" Ah, yes," she exclaimed, in a low voice. 
" You are perfectly right. There are some unset 
jewels in the cabinet. I had forgotten. Stay 
where you are and I will bring them to you." 

And she darted swiftly into the room which 
she had entered a few minutes ago in such an 
agony of trepidation. 

" Devil seize me* if there isn't a depth here 
I can't swim in," said Beddows. 

The woman was back before fifteen seconds 
had passed. She pulled-to the door of the room 
with infinite care, as if fearing to arouse the 
inmate from his unnatural slumber. 

" Here they are," she panted, her eyes shming 
with a strange light. " Now go — go." 

Beddows dropped the little silver casket into 
his pockety then his right^ hand gripped the 
other's shoulder with a crushing, a cruel force. 

" 'there's something that beats me in this," 
he snarled ferociously. " Something I am 
going to understand." And he commenced to. 
force the other back towards the? room. He 
had litl^e or no intention to enter it, but he 
was >determined to make her speak. "By 
Heaven I " he went on, as she struggled under 
his mastery, "I don't believe you're afraid of 
nu at all! Out with it ! What " 

" Stop ! "jshe exclaimed, at the critical moment.. 
•* There — there — — " she could say no more. 

" Go on I . Out with it ! Quick 1 " 

" In that room ... a man . . . he's dead I " 

Beddows released her abruptly. "How 
do you know that ? " ije mocked, " Who 
told vou he ,is dead ? " 

" I-^I killed him I " 

"Youl" ^ 

" I killed him," she moaned, catching at a 
chair for support. 

He stared at her as if he believed .she had 
taken leave of her senses. A long, tense 9ilence 
ensued. . She kept pressing , her heart as if 
she was suffocating, and suddenly Beddows 
caught another glimpse of something which 
gleamed in the clutch of her left hand, some- 
thing which she tried to conceal, which she 
refused to abandon. 

At the same instant a clue to the mystery 
dashed through his amazement caused by her 
words. - It was a steel blade gripped so 
jealously in her palm. She had descended 
the staircase, not because she had heard a 
disturbance, but with intent to go into that 
room and commit a crime. And she had 
gone in. She had found its inmate in the 
easy chair, and she had concluded he was 
sleeping ! And so — and so 

" You stabbed him 1 " exclaimed Beddows, 
aloud, concluding his thought. 

She did not answer. She could not answer. 
Her bosom rose and fell in a tumult. 

" You little devil, you," he went on. " What 
did you do it for ? " 

by Google 

She panted, in her terrible struggle for breath 
— " I was mad." 

He jeered : " That is to say you are sorry." 

"♦Ah, God knows I am 1 I killed him because 
I— I loved him." 

" And he loved someone else I You cursed 
little Italian spitfire." 

At that moment there was a slight noise, 
which seemed to come from inside the room, 
but it was not noticed. Beddows continued, 
in the same jeering tone : — 

" I thought you were scared of me, but the 
boot's on the other foot now. Who'd have 
thought it, to look at you I A nice dish of 
jealousy you 've been stewing in. And now you'll 
have to pay for it." 

In a mute agony she/ regarded him, as if she 
did not comprehend the brutal banter; fear 
and remorse imparting an expression almost 
of insanity in her staring, motionless eyes. 

" Of course I s£e through your move now," 
Beddows went on, wiping his hot forehead, 
which the heat of the room and the half-glass 
of brandy had dewed with perspiration. " I 
understand why you were suddenly glad for me 
to go off with the box out of the cabinet in that 
room. It occurred to you that I might then 
be wanted for t\\€ business in there. Pretty, 
I must say. I thought I was cute, but I can't 
hold* a candle to the sense in those delicate 
brains of yours. What was it you used ? Some 
fancy, weapon f Yoi* can show it me now, 
you know." . 

She extended her left arm jerkily. Inside 
her palm was a tiny cut-glass phial. She 
moaned : — 

" I had left it in his room. I came, down- 
stairs for it." \ 

Beddows' brows came together in a bewil- 
dered "stare. 

" Curse me if I follow even now," he blurted. 

She panted, trembling fingers clawing at 
her cheek : " Merciful God, how could I do it ! 
It was in t^iis bottle— that which killed hirn. 
I emptied it, every drop of it, into the decanter 
of brandy 1 " 

" What ? " roared Beddows, in a frightful voice. 

That thunderous shout had not died upon 
his blanching lips when there came the sound 
of a heavy, dragging footstep in the inner room. 
Uncertain fingers fumbled at the handle ; the 
door was jerked back, and the inmate appeared, 
swaying unsteadily. He saw nothing, heard 
nothing, for he was still stupefied by the blow 
from the brass candle-stick. The woman uttered 
a shrill, hjart-piercing cry ; she rushed at him 
with extended arms. 

Beddows made for the door opening upon 
the holly avenue. He missed it as if he could 
not see, found it at a second attempt ^ ran 
out into the night. He went down the glade 
like a madman, throwing distorted shadows 
upon the frost-rime. 

And suddenly the broad moon, and the lamps 
of the stars, and the procession of clouds, swung 
round and round like a whirlpool, with the 
seethe and roar of an immense maelstrom ! 

Original from 




A Literary Mystery Solved. 


IT is my privilege 
to make public 
fur the first time 
one of the 
strangest and most 
moving love-stories 
that have come to 
light in recent years- 
It is the love romance 
of two people who 
are dead, but one of 
whom will live for 
ever in some of the 
most charming and 
graceful poems that 
have been written 
in English for many 

Barely six weeks 
after the outbreak of 
the war there died 
in London a Cana- 
dian writer of % r erse, 
Isidore G. Ascher, 
whose contributions 
to poetic literature 
had been constant 
ever since his young 
manhood, and who 
had been hailed by 
more than one critic 
of judgment and dis- 
crimination as among 
the most eloquent of 
the minor poets* He 
was nearly eighty 
years old. Born in 
Glasgow* he wa* 
taken to Canada 
when he was five, 

brought up in Montreal, graduated at McGill 
University, and became a lawyer* 

Soon afterwards, or when he was in his early 
twenties, he came to London, where it had 
been planned that he should live for a year or 
two. With the exception of an pc> 




visit to Canada, 
however, Mr, Aschex 
spent the entire re- 
mainder of his life 
in tins country. 

lie continued to 
practise law; but all 
along his heart was 
in the poetic work 
which bad speedily 
made him recognized 
on both sides of the 
Atlantic as one of 
the most gifted versi- 
fiers in English. Soon 
after his arrival here, 
in 1S63, he became 
a member of a dis- 
tinguished literary 
circle, which included 
such celebrities as 
Wilkie Collins and 
Harrison Ainsw'orth, 
the novelists , Thomas 
Hughes, the author 
of " Torn Brown's 
Schooldays/* Jean 
Iuge!ow P the poetess, 
and Tom Taylor, the 
playwright, and 
author oi < 4 Still 
Waters Run Deep." 
They one and all 
recognised his excep- 
tional gifts, Mr, 
Ascbcr was no mere 
dreamer, but a worker 
who sang while he 
worked. He possessed 
a keen, logical mind 
and a generous, lovable nature. 

J n the early part of the year in which Mr, 
Ascher took up his residence here he published his 
first volume of poems . Called i- Voices from tho 
Hearth /* it was most happily reviewed here and 
in the United SUA us and Ca.nada, and enjoyed a 







quick sale of two thousand copies in a couple 
of months. Now,, fifty-five years later, the poems 
which were contained in it are to be republished. 
This, however, will be not the second, but the 
third time that they have been issued in book 
form. Twenty-four years after their original 
publication the lyrics again made their appear- 
ance between covers, this time being entitled 
" Fragrant Blossoms from 
a Silent Pathway," Their 
second appearance, under 
this typically mid - Vic- 
torian title, was due tp a 
misapprehension follow- 
ing on what must be ono 
of the strangest* as well as 
most touching, romances 
th^vt the history of the 
poets, rich beyond meas- 
ure in romance and sur- 
prise, hag to teLL 

Not Quite Forgotten. 

Still pouring out his soul 
in verse nearly a quarter 
of a century after the 
publication of *' Voices 
from the Hearth/' it was 
Ascher 's belief that, ex- 
cept in a few hearts 
where one or another of 
the poems it contained 
might still be treasured, 
the world had forgotten 
his first book. Never did 
it cross his mind that 
liis little collection would 
again come under the eye 
of the critic. 

In the summer of 188S, one day Mr. Ascher 
came across an article in the Montreal Gazette 
which was sent to him by a friend — a wondering 
article* reviewing a volume of poems that had 
been sent to the editor for the purpose. This 
volume was entitled " Fragrant Blossoms from 
a Silent Pathway." In the course of this article 
the reviewer said S— 

"In turning the pages of the volume we 
detected a familiar ring in the dedicatory : * 1\\ 
trust, in love , I lay my lowly offering, mother, 
at thy feet/ 

" The poem * Pygmalion ' seemed almost 
remarkably like something we had read lief ore 
on the same theme* The lines beginning ' Light 
of Canada's Sages/ written after the Toronto 
Judges had decided to return Anderson, the 
slave, who had sought the protection of Canada, 
next made us pause and reflect* f Only a 
Plank/ ' Ada/ ' The Child of the Lake/ ' A 
Legend of St. Hilaire/ and ' To the Memory of 
Lady Montefiore * — surely, we thought, we have 
already seen alt these versification* somewhere 
or other. Nor, indeed, were we long in doubt. 
In fifteen minutes from the moment the first 
suspicion flashed upon us we had convinced 
ourselves that Mr. Isidore G. Ascher had con- 
tributed several of the * fragrant blossoms * 

Vol ML-* 





which Miss Cross had deemed it her duty to 
place within the reach of the literary world. 
But our surprise was enhanced when, on collating 
the two volumes, we discovered that, with the 
exception of four short poems which are omitted, 
and some slight changes which we shall indicate-, 
the latter was, even to the introduction, a word* 
for- word transcript of the earlier." 

This article consider- 
ably astonished Mr* 
Ascher. He had author- 
ized no second edition 
of his poems. He cer- 
tainly would not have 
dreamed of issuing a 
second edition under a 
different title and name. 
He could not understand 
what had happened, He 
sent off at once to 
America for a copy of 
this spurious volume. 

Work of a Nun. 

When the book reached 
Mr, Ascher lie found 
it handsomely produced, 
if a little more gaudy 
than his own taste 
would have sanctioned, 
Across a fern-embossed 
background in largo 
letters of gold appeared 
the title, " Fragrant 
Blossoms from a Silent 

The title - page did 
not say anything about 
" Fragran^ Blossoms/' but read ;— 


■ . . . 

Child of the Lake, The Three Kings, 
and Other Poems. 

: By 

A Reverend Sisteh 

of the Order of Jesus and Mary, and late of 

the Convent of Hcchelaga. 

With Biographical Sketch. 

Edited by 
Miss May Cross, 
Cape Vmcent, NT-Y, 

Mr. Ascher turned to the preface. It read as 
follows : — 

" These poems, wliich 1 now place within 
reach of the literary world, are from the pen of 
a much-beloved teacher, and were a parting gift 
to me 7 her last pupil, but a short month before 
her death. 

4f Years ago, many of them passed under the 
scrutinizing eye of our household poet (Long- 
fellow), who bestowed upon them warm com- 
mendations, ' The New Year ' particular 1 y, o£ 
the shorter poems was a favourite with him*, 




and he paid the writer many compliments for 
the similes with which it abounds. 

" Since they have been in my possession, men 
of learning and culture have looked into them, 
and I have received such encouragement that I 
no longer refrain from giving them the dignity 
of print, feeling that they are worthy of public 
notice, and that all those -into whose hands they 
may fall will read with pleasure. 

" I feel safe in saying that Catholics and non- 
Catholics can alike enjoy them ; for while they 
are the thoughts of one whose heart was in the 
Catholic Faith, there is not a word to which the 
Protestant heart cannot respond. 

" I therefore regard it almost as a sacred duty 
to give this work to the world. Trusting that 
my effort will be attended with success, and 
that her poems may find favour with all lovers 
of verse, I fondly dedicate this little volume to 
her memory. May L. Cross." 

Next came the introduction, a word-for-word 
Copy of Mr. Ascher's introduction to the original 
" Voices from the Hearth." Then followed the 
poems, arranged in a different -order from the 
original, but to all intents and purposes without 
Change. Seldom, indeed, had another such bare- 
faced theft come to light. Now, a poet is as 
tenacious of, and will as fearlessly fight for, the 
possession of his poems as a mother for her child. 
Mr. Ascher at once wrote to the publisher 
of the pirated edition saying that he was 
instructing his lawyer in New York to take 
steps to establish his ownership of the poems 
and to restrain the publisher from issuing any 
more copies.. At the same time he wrote to a 
lawyer friend of his in New York asking him to 
look after his interests. He was very affronted 
at this bold theft of his work, and he left matters 
in the hands of the lawyer to act as drastically 
as was thought good. The lawyer at once got 
into communication with both the publisher 
and the editress. It did not take him long to 
find that, both were genuine in their belief that 
the poems were the work of a nun, as had been 
stated in the preface. The lawyer learned 
enough to impel him to make minute inquiries 
into the mystery, and this he did by inquiring 
into the life of the Lady Superior. It did not 
take him long to discover a most touching love 
romance — and tragedy. 

In his student days Mr. Ascher had one 
especial friend, a fellow-student named Nagel. 
The two were greatly attached to one another, 
bing seen continually together. Like every- 
thing connected with youth, this friendship was 
splendidly genuine. When young Nagel fell ill 
of scarlet fever Ascher refused to leave his 
friend's bedside till all danger was over. This 
devotion bound the young men still closer than 
ever they had been before. 

A Love Romance. 

Another factor in their inseparable com- 
panionship was the fact that each had a sister, and 
that the sisters attended the same convent, were 
in the same class, and had become fast friends. 
Ascher's sister Eva often brought to her parents' 

Digitized by L^OOQlC 

house Nagel's sister Mary, and so it came to 
pass that the young folk, boys and girls, were 
thrown much into each other's company. Mary 
Nagel was a beautiful girl, quiet and pensive 
and gentle, with large Irish eyes and a subtle 
fascination of a kind most likely to captivate 
a young and enthusiastic poet. Isidore Ascher 
fell in love with Mary Nagel. Mary Nagel fell 
in love with him. That her love was faithful 
and great, events that followed prove. 

Not for a long time did the parents of either 
Ascher or Mary discover that the two were in 
earnest, and that they had come to that beautiful 
understanding so often born of romantic associa- 
tion. But when the real state of matters did 
dawn upon the parents neither side approved. 

The youth of the lovers, and the fact that 
Ascher had not established himself in his pro- 
fession, and that to do so must take him years, 
were secondary causes of the parental objection. 
The great cause, however, lay deeper. The 
two were not of the same faith. This objection 
to their union the parents of neither could bring 
themselves to waive. Many consultations, much 
pleading and protest on the part of the young 
people, resulted in nothing. The parents were 
inflexible in their opposition to the match. 

The two young people met by stealth. To 
them it did not seem that difference in faith 
must necessarily mean a complete separation ; 
but as it turned out the pressure brought to bear 
was strong enough to put their marriage out of 
the question. Isidore Ascher pleaded his hardest 
with his parents, by whom he was loved sincerely, 
, but to no avail. The parents had no objection 
to Mary Nagel herself. They were fond of her, 
and admired her sweetness and her beauty. But 
faith was, to them, more than everything else. 
At last Mr. Ascher's father decided to send 
Isidore to England, in the hope that a long 
absence from Mary would effect what parental 
pleadings could not quite bring to pass. Late 
in the year 1863, the year in which his " Voices 
from the Hearth " was published, Isidore Ascher 
came to London. Before he left he went to 
say good-bye to Mary. Their parting was sad. 
She gave him these well-known lines :— 

Go where glory waits thee ; 

But while Tame elates thee, 

Oh, still remember me I 

But before fame crowned him in England Mary 
had passed to a better world. It, as has been 
said, was his father's intention that the son 
should pay a visit — a long visit, it is true, but a 
visit only. It did not cross his mind that Isidore 
would settle down in London. 

Took the VeiL 

After her lover had sailed away Mary Nagel, 
sore at heart, became a teacher in the convent 
in which she and Eva Ascher had been educated. 
Later on she took the veil. Her life was not a 
long one, but even in its few years' span she 
rose until, before the end, she held the responsible 
position of Lady Superior of the convent. And 
there she died. But all the time it would seem 
that the flame ni lov^ lit by her young poet 

-_- 1 I L| 1 1 I >.1 1 IrUII; 




continued to 

bum brightly. 

And t ids abiding 

love moved her 

to do a rat lie r 


thing, yet a 

thing natural in 

its way. She had 

gune through the 

labour of care- 
fully copying in 

her own hand- 
writing every 

word of the 


and poems in 

Isidore Ascher 's 

book of verse, 

1 ' Voices from the* 

Hearth." More 

than this, she 

had kept a watch 

on those English 
publications in which appeared 
her lover's poems written sub- 
sequent to the publication of 
his first volume, and these, too, she had copied 
and placed with the rest* The manuscript in a 
neat packet, she kept under her pillow. 

Among her many pupils Mary Nagel had an 
especial favourite, May Cross, In. her last illness 
tins pupil was her constant help and companion. 
And when the Lady Superior knew she stood 
at death's door she took from under her 
pillow the manuscript she had so lovingly 
cherished, and handed it to her faithful pupil, 
as the most precious gift she had to bestow. 
Then she died, 

Miss Cross clung to the manuscript* Quite 
naturally her conclusion was that the poems 
and introduction were the original work of her 
beloved teacher and friend ; for Mary Nagel 
had never divulged her secret, not even to Eva 
Asclier, with whom she had not lost touch and 
who continued her close and loved friend to the 
last. For some years MLsa Cross carefully kept 
the manuscript, now and then allowing a friend 
whom she thought discriminating to read the 
poems. From each of these they received warm 
praise. At last Miss Cross came to the conclusion 
that she must give to tile world the beautiful 
poems shp so fondly believed the work of her 
teacher and friend. She found no difficulty in 
securing a publisher, and the " Voices from the 
Hearth ' * came forth in volume form as M Fragrant 
Blossoms from a Silent Pathway." 

The moment Mr. Ascher received the first 
inkling of the true facts he stopped all pro- 
ceedings, as he now, for the first time, under- 
stood the whole circumstances of the case, and 
iver after till the day of his death he treasured 
in his writing-desk a bunch of flowers which he 
culled from the grave of Mary Nagel p whose 

"she took from under her pillow the 

manuscript she had so lovingly cherish ed p 

and handed it to her faithful pupil*" 

faithful love had been brought to light in such a 
romantic way. 

The appealing story that is here made public 
for the first time will be related in an intro- 
duction to the collected edition of Isidore 
Ascher J s poems, which is to be published as soon 
as circumstances permit. Their introduction 
will be from the practised pen of Mr. James 
Barr, the novelist, to whom I am indebted for 
the privilege of narrating it in advance. Mr, 
Barr is writing the story at the request of Isidore 
Ascher *s widow, who lives in London, and to whom 
the arrangements for the complete edition of Ins 
writings have been a labour of love and pride. 

by Google 

Original from 


£7 Romance 



MPustrated by Tom Peddie 

Clio de Bronsari — a girl of twenty, unmarried, dark-haired, fragile, and beautiful as a dream — 
was one of four guests of Prince Selm on his palatial steam-yacht, the *' Gaston de Paris." Clio, 
one of the old French nobility, had no leanings towards the People. She looked on the lower classes 
just as she looked on animals, beings with rights of their own, but belonging to an entirely different 
order of creation. Consequently, when the vessel was wrecked and she found herself and two rough 
and sea-hardened sailors — Bompard and La Touche — cast upon the inhospitable shores of Kerguelen, 
sole survivors of the catastrophe, these views lent piquancy to her situation as she faced the problem 
that shipwreck had put before her — a problem ranging from soap to a change of garments. The 
discovery of a supply of tinned provisions, which had been carefully stored away by an expeditionary 
party a few years back, relieved Clio of one anxiety, but her peace of mind was greatly upset when, 
thrjough Bompard losing his life in a quicksand, she found herself alone with the undesirable La 
Touche. One night, hearing him moving about at the entrance to her cave, she struck out with a 
knife into the darkness and rushed into the open* The knife was still in her hand, and her hand 
was sticky and damp. 

CHAPTER XII.— continued. 

L^O said to herself : " That is 
his blood." The thought that 
perhaps she had killed La 
Touche did not occur to her ; 
the fear of him was still so 
intense that it made him alive, 
alive somewhere in the sur- 
rounding darkness and waiting 
to seize her. Then she began to steal off towards 
the sound of the sea. Twice as she went she 
stopped and turned, ready to strike again ; 
then, when the water was washing round her 
feet, she came up the beach a few paces and 
crouched down. 

The sea was at her back and the haunting 
dread of being followed vanished. 

It was now that she asked herself the question : 
Have I killed him ? — meaning : Have I freed 
myself of him ? — and hoping this was so. 

The terror behind her having vanished she 
was now brave ; it seemed to her that the 
sound of the sea had become sharper, then she 

Copyright, 1919, by 

lized by V^OOgle 

recognized that the sound of the rain had ceased. 
She had half recognized already that the rain 
had suddenly ceased; but her mind seemed 
working in a dual manner, and she had. not 
fully recognized the cessation of the rain till the 
sound of the sea clinched the fact. 

Through the clear night now came the melan- 
choly crying of the whale birds, and through 
the broken clouds a ray of the moon showed a 
faint light in which the cliffs began to stand out. 

The incoming tide washed round her so that 
she had to move, it seemed determined to 
drive her up to the caves. She could see now 
the whole beach desolate of life ; and before 
her, vaguely sketched in the cliff wall, the cave 

She came along the sea edge till she reached the 
break in the cliffs, then, looking behind her again 
to make sure, she took refuge in the bushes. 

For the last few yards, before reaching them, 
she seemed to be wading through tides of 
nothingness ; in the shelter of the bushes she 
forgot everything. 






She was awakened by 

the light of day. 

Kerg,uelen had 
cleared its face of 
clouds and the new- 
risen sun was on sea 
and mountains and 

A whole family of 
rabbits were disport- 
ing themselves close 
to her in, a clear space 
between the bushes* 
and as she sat up 
they darted off, a 
glimpse of their cot- 
ton-white tails show* 
ing lor a moment in 
the sun. 

She* was stiff from 
the damp, her clothes 
were wet despite the 
oilskin coat which she 
had leit open, and her 
throat was sore ; every 
bone ached as though 
she had been beaten 
Her soul felt sick. It 
was as though the 
crawling beast of the 
night before had 
crawled over it like a 
slug, poisoning it. The 
knife lay beside her ; 
she picked it tip and 
looked at it: there 
were red traces upon 
the hilt and the lines 
in the palm of her 
right hand were red. 
She nibbed it clean 
with the damp leaves 
of the bushes, then she 
stood up p shaking and 
weak, heedless of 
everything but the 
friendly touch of the 
sun. Her fear was 
gone, but the effect 
of it remained in a 




sense of bruising and 

Out on the beach there was nothing, not lung 
but the breaking sea and the flying gulls and 
lines of long-legged gulls stalking or standing 
on the sands ♦ Everything was the same. 

She drew towards the caves. Nothing stirred 
there, Then she halted and, changing her 
course, came right down to the water's edge. 
From here she could see the three cave mouths 
dark-cut in the cttft\ She watched them for a 
moment as though expecting something to 
appear, then she came up towards them, 
walking more cautiously as she drew near, just 
as she had walked on the plain where the death- 
traps were. 

The light shone into the cave where she had 
slept. She saw a naked foot with toes dug into 
the sand f and beyond the foot a form lying on 
its side. 

Then she drew back with a cry — so me tiling 
was moving there, A rabbit dashed out o( the 
cave and sc uttered away along the cliff base* 
Then she knew* 

La Touche was dead ; he would never crawl 
again. She had killed hhn. She cast the knife 
on the sand and wiped the palm of her hand on 
her dress half unconsciously, gazing at the foot. 

The terror of him had burned away anything 
in her mind that might have fed remorse \ she 
had not killed lum consciously ; searching her 
memory she amd vaguely recollect having 




struck out against something appalling in the 
darkness. Now she knew and guessed all, and 
she could have hated him, only that death kills 

She came to the mouth of the men's cave 
and sat down in the sun ; the soreness of her 
throat, the weariness of her very bones, the 
feel of her horrible wet clothes, all these filled 
her with a craving for the sun and its warmth 
and light, fierce as the craving for drink. She 
spread out her hands to it, then, with shaking 
fingers, she began to take off her clothes ; they 
clung to her like evil things. Had this been a 
day of pouring rain she might just have lain 
down and died. 

Without getting up, and leaning on her elbow, 
she spread out the skirt and coat and other 
things on the sand beside her, then she stretched 
her aching limbs to the warmth. 

The wind had fallen to almost a dead calm, 
and as she lay she saw little rabbits stealing 
out to play in the sunshine on the sands. She , 
- watched them running in circles like things on 
wheels and moving by clockwork. Then she 
closed her eyes, but still she saw them circling, 
circling, circling. 

Then she was in the toy department of the 
Magazin du Louvre, and a shopwoman was 
showing her toy rabbits that ran in circles, 
five francs each. 

She awoke at noon ; the sore throat was gone, 
her bones no longer ached, and the great beach 
lay under the heat of noon humming like a 
stretched string to the touch of the sea. 

Her left arm and side and thigh were scorched 
by the sun. but that was nothing ; the sense 
of illness had vanished and her mind, quite 
clear and renewed, had regained its balance. 

She remembered everything. La Touche 
was lying there in the cave, dead ; the knife that 
had killed him she could see lying on the sand 
where she had dropped it. She had killed him. 
All these monstrous facts seemed old, settled 
and done with, and of little more interest than 
the things and events of a year ago. 

What seemed new was the beach and its 
desolation — its emptiness. It was as though a 
crowd of people had suddenly vanished from it, 
a crowd that any moment might return. The 
place seemed waiting and watching. 

She cast her eyes towards the rocks of the 
Lizard Point and then towards the cave mouth, 
then hurriedly she began to put on her clothes, 
now dry and warm, and having dressed she 
stood for a moment again looking about her. 

She could see the penguins in the distance 
going through their endless evolutions, and the 
rhythmical sound of the sea came from near 
and far mixed with the chanting and crying of 
the gulls. At any moment Bompard might 
appear labouring over those rocks, at any 
moment La Touche might step from the cave 
where he lay. That is what the beach told her, 
though she knew that the forms of the two men 
would appear no more, that she was here alone, 
utterly alone. 

She took shelter from the sun in the men's 

cave. Bompard's tinder-box was lying on the 
sand and half a box of Swedish matches ; the 
men's blankets were tossed in a corner and the 
provisions and utensils were in their proper 
place. On a pjate by the bags of biscuits by 
the remains of the beef from last night's supper ; 
she took it and ate it with a biscuit, sitting on 
the floor of the cave and staring before her out 
at the strip of beach, where the boat lay on its 
side with the sea breaking beyond. 

On the day the men had gone off inland on 
their expedition she had terrified herself with 
fancies of what it would be like were she to 
find herself here alone. Her imagination had 
gone far from the reality. 

The thing had happened ; the men were gone, 
gone for ever ; yet she was not alone. They 
filled the place by their absence far more than 
they had filled it by their presence. 

The louder cry of a gull outside seemed 
hailing Bompard, the rustle of a rabbit on the 
sands seemed the coming* of La Touche, the 
sound of the sea spoke of them, the boat seemed 
only waiting for them to launch it. They, whom 
a million years would not bring back. 

She felt neither regret for the fate of La 
Touche nor sorrow for the fate of Bompard ; 
all that seemed unreal, just as the darkness and 
terror of the night before seemed unreal ; the 
real thing that touched her through everything 
was expectancy. Expectancy, ghostly and at- 
tenuated, yet ubiquitous. 

It brought her to the cave mouth before she 
had finished her meal. The beach seemed to 
say to her : " Come out and look I " and she 
came out and looked, and the line of foam and 
the wheeling or stalking gulls held her for a 
moment as though saying : " A moment, * 
moment more, and you will see something. 
They will come. Any moment now you may 
see Bompard crossing the rocks. La Touche is 
not in that cave ; he is here, everywhere." 

She came back into the cave and sat down 
and finished her meal ; the food had renewed her 
strength, and with renewed strength her in- 
difference to all that had happened began to 

by LiOOgle 

She had killed La Touche, the reality of that 
fact was coming home to her now ; she did not 
reason in the least on the matter, saying he 
deserved to be killed ; that had all been settled 
long ago in her mind, but the fact that she had 
killed him was standing strongly out before her, 
also the facts that he was dead and lying quite 
close to her, and that though she did not mind 
his dead body she was beginning to dread some- 
thing else. 

Dead, he was beginning to frighten her just 
as he had frightened her when living. Then 
she found that it was just the same with Bom- 
pard. He was frightening her too. 

Suppose one or the other were to peep in at 
her, and nod at her — she pictured it and then 
crushed the picture in her mind and got up and 
came out again and stood in the sun. 

Then she came down to the boat and stood 
with her haird or the gunwale, and for a moment, 




as she stood thus, the terror of utter loneliness 
came to her in a hundred tongues and ways and 
always with reference to the men who had 

It was impossible to stay here alone —alone — 
absolutely alone ; like a frightened child her 
mind appealed against this terror, it climbed 
the vacant skies and passed over the desolate 
hills in search of comfort. Was there a God ? 
To whom could she run for comfort, for escape ? 

As if in answer to her wild but unspoken 
question came a far-off roar brought on the 
wind from the great seal beach. 



Cl£0 turned her face that way and stood for a 
moment with the faint breeze blowing her hair. 
Then she came running up the beach to the caves. 
In the men's cave she stood glancing rapidly 
about her like a person in a burning house 
seeking what he may save. 

She picked up the tinder-box and the box of 
matches and put them in her pocket. Then 
she began to remove everything from the cave. 
Making a sack of one of the blankets, she filled 
it with as much as she could drag along and 
brought it to the break in the cliffs, where she 
dumped the contents. 

It took her three journeys. Then, having 
collected everything in a big pile, she sat down 
for a moment to rest. The things would be 
safe here till she could fetch them to her new 
home and the weather would not hurt them, 
except, maybe, the biscuits. 

The thought of the biscuits troubled her, and 
she pictured them lying exposed in one of the 
torrential rains. Then she caught sight of a 
cleft in the basalt. It was dry and big enough 
to contain the bags, and she placed them there, 
having taken out some of their contents. 

These and a couple of tins of meat she placed 
in one of the blankets, making a sack of it. 
Then she remembered the knife she had left 
lying on the sand before the cave where the 
dead man lay. 

She fought against the idea of returning for it. 
Then her will made her go. 

As she picked up the knife she glanced once 
again into the cave, and once again caught a 
glimpse of the naked foot with the toe dug into 
the sand ; then, placing the knife in its sheath 
and running like a frightened child, she reached 
the break, caught up the sack, the extra blanket, 
and the axe which she had hidden among the 
bushes, and started. 

It was not a heavy load, fortunately ; had 
it been heavy she would have dropped it, for, 
once moving, she had to run. The idea that 
she was deserting people who did not want to 
be deserted pursued her; now and again she 
stopped and turned for a moment, and then 
went on, walking now, but swiftly, till, nearing 
the river and in full sight of her new companions, 
she found herself suddenly free. 

The hounds of Fear had given up the chase. 
The great sea-elephants had driven them away. 

Here was no longer loneliness. The* great 
beasts sunning themselves on the flat rocks 
seemed more numerous, and as she crossed 
the river a monster coming in from the sea 
in a thunder of foam saluted the land with a 

She recognized, or thought she recognized, 
the great bull that had -followed her; he was 
lying, to-day, half-tilted to one side ; he looked 
drunk with sun and laziness, and as she came 
amongst them and sat down, as she had sat 
that day, she found that, though a hundred 
pairs of eyes were watching -her, scarcely a 
burly figure moved. 

They had grown used to her, perhaps, or 
perhaps they recognized that she did not fear 
them now in the least, or that she was come for 
refuge and friendship. 

Then she rose up and, passing amongst them 
as a friend amongst friends, came towards the 
caves in the basalt cliffs. They were smaller 
than the caves to the west, but they were dry 
and free from water-drip. She chose one and 
put her bundle down with the axe beside it. 



The place was as populous as a town. That 
was the soul-satisfying fact which she absorbed 
as she sat with the bundle and axe beside her. 
To be lonely here one would have to be deaf 
and blind and without the sense of smell. Now 
that their attention was no longer strained by 
watching her, the great brutes filled the place 
with all sorts of sounds: grunts and grumbles, 
puffs and snorts like the escape of steam from 
a locomotive, and now and then the flop of a 
great body changing position. 

She took off the oilskin coat and laid it on the 
sand of the cave, then took the things from the 
blanket and spread the two blankets out and 
folded them. As she moved about she saw that 
the bulls had turned slightly, attracted by her 
movements, but they showed not the slightest 
sign of mind-disturbance. Then, having placed 
the things in order, she came out and walked 
down to the water's edge, making a ditour 
now and then to avoid treading on the flippers 
or the tail of a monster. On coining amongst 
them a few minutes ago she had felt not the 
slightest fear, but this walk in cold blood from 
the cliff to the sea-edge made her hold her 
breath. She felt as she had felt that first day 
when she sat down close to them. Angry, 
and with a sudden movement, one of these 
creatures could have destroyed her as a man 
destroys a fly ; but she held on, and was re- 

Not one of them showed any wish to destroy 
her, or anger, or uneasiness. They had accepted 
her into their company by not attacking or 
ejecting her ; she ran counter to none of their 
desires or needs, and evidently her form called 
up no recollections of the beast Man in their 
dim brains. 

Then she was a female. Sex is more than a 
physical difference between one being and 




another: one can fancy it as one of the out- 
standing signs of the Wild to be read by instinct, 
as instinct reads the weather or season signs, 
or the sea mile-posts that lead the seals and 
sea-elephants thousands of leagues to strike 
some particular beach as an arrow strikes the 
bull's-eye of a target. 

The female, unless with young, is not dan- 
gerous to the male. One may fancy that amongst 
the few but burningly important warnings 
and directions in the book of Instinct, 

Here, at the sea-edge and within a few feet 
of the breaking waves, she sat down on a pro- 
jecting rock and tried to measure with her eye 
the vast herd, 
The whole beach 
from where she 
sat to where the 
flat rocks ceased, 
a mile and a half 
away on her right, 
was spotted with 
them, and she 
noticed that here 
and there they 
were always put- 
ting out to sea 
and coming ashore 

Making for a 
spot on the right, 
a hundred yards 
from her, she 
saw one coming 
ashore, swift as 
an arrow, steer- 
ing with straight, 
steadfast eyes and 
landing with the 
water cascading 
from his huge 
shoulders ; whilst 
on the left one 
was putting out 
to sea in a burst 
of foam. 

Then, of a sud* 
den, alt the shore- 
edge bulls got 
in commotion, 
Blithering about, 
raising themselves 
on their flippers, 
and blowing off 

A sea-elephant 
was coming to- 
wards the beach, 
moving with a 
speed thrice that of any of the others ; his head 
was raised and she could see the eyes that 
seemed blazing with wrath or challenge. 

Then* as he came thundering on to the rocks, 
he lifted the echoes with a roar that resounded 
for miles along the beach. 

Nearly all the others had landed in silence. 

She did not know that this was a new -corner. 

a belated bull, held days behind the arrival 
of the others by some chance of the sea j maybe 
he had hung fishing off the South She t lands or 
the Horn or beached for repairs after some sea- 
ftght off the FalkJands ; whatever had held 
hirn t he was late, 

He came swiftly up the rocks, casting his 
head from side to side, but unchallenged. There* 
were no females there yet to fight for. and they 
evidently recognized htm as one of the herd 
and not a stranger. The herd instinct,